Prism
by gidget89
Summary: Another section of your soul scrawled across while you weren't looking. Perverse Sequel.
1. Noir

A/N: TA DA! Hee, this one will only be about nine parts - but each part is likely to be as massively long as this one - so that's alright right? I'm going to try to update every tuesday - so happy tuesday! As usual, many many many thanks to Alias424 - who [atiently puts up with my semi-sane ramblings about this huge fic. Review! A/N 2; And I had to delete and re-post this because FF is MADE OF FAIL and wouldn't let me change the language from Spanish to English. FAIL FF, FAIL!! So if you reviewed (i.e had me on author alert and thought ' maybe it's not in spanish' I am SO SORRY - I rlly appreciated the reviews, but I HAD to fix it. Stupid FF. Garh.

* * *

Life is defined by minutes and seconds that trickle past you at an almost undetectable rate. The canvas is defined by harsh strokes – indelible marks scored across it in fresh paint, or squeaked along in magic marker. The method doesn't matter, because the outcome is always the same. One more section of your soul scrawled across while you aren't paying attention. 

She was paying attention now.

She was aware of her breathing – rapid and a quick _in__-o__ut__-__in__-__out__-__in__-__in__-__in__-__out_– in contrast to his own slower, laboured breaths – liquid gurgling with each mechanical whoosh of the machine. She was aware of the blood. Dark red, vivid against the white sheets he lay on – so dark that she couldn't stare at it too long, lest that be the mark he left on her. Permanent.

She wanted to look at his eyes – his face, his hands, and his hair – anything but the violent black ruby of the blood. She couldn't look away though. Couldn't tear her eyes off of him, or remember to blink – or even listen to the voice buzzing around her and the hand tugging on her arm.

"Dr. Cuddy!" She swatted at the hands pulling on her, pushing them away but not stepping any closer to the gurney he lay on. This wasn't real. This was not real.

She could only stare at him, waiting for him to move, waiting for the doctors to step away and for him to sit up. She stared so hard at the white sheets, stained with blood that she could feel the edge of her vision darken, blacken along the edges like charred paper as she tried to burn away the image in her mind.

"Cuddy!" A hand was grabbing her roughly now – jerking her around and away from the image as she gasped in air for the first time in what seemed like forever. "Shit, she's in shock –"

"I'm fine." Her voice seemed far from fine, wooden and hollow – echoing with darkness. But there must have been enough command in there – because the four people in front of her stopped talking.

"He'll be fine." Chase was the first to reassure her. softly – his hand on her arm for a moment. "The bullets went straight through – and missed his carotid artery, miraculously. They'll just need to take him into surgery. Since you're his physician on record..."

Cameron was sobbing – a strangled choking sound as her shoulders shook and her dark eyes were wide in her pale face. Her hands were pressed to her mouth as tears streamed down her face and she met Cuddy's eyes wildly.

"He just came in and shot him. Didn't say anything – just asked who House was and shot him. What kind of person would do that?!" Her voice was thick with tears as she spoke to Cuddy, who watched her with an eerie sense of detachment.

"They need to take him into surgery." Brenda's voice was brisk, jerking Cuddy's attention toward her. Her eyes slid over the bleeding wound of emotion that was Cameron, past the solemnly silent face of Foreman, finally landing on Brenda.

"He asked for you –" Cameron's hands were clutching her arms like talons as panic seeped through her voice. "He said to tell you –" Cuddy turned back to her – even though it hurt to look at the girl, a red-hot poker shoved through her chest. "Ketamine."

Ketamine. She felt the disappointment flow through her like darkly clotted blood – but she pressed her teeth against her lip and kept her face calm.

"Has anyone called Wilson?" She finally spoke, and her voice felt rusty, like an old metal gate neglected and corroded.

"I paged him," Brenda responded briskly and Cuddy nodded absently in response. She wavered in her spot – longing to turn around, but terrified to as well. Chase had said he would be fine. They always said that to loved ones. Chase didn't know she was a – he didn't know.

"Dr. Cuddy – we need to take Dr. House up to surgery now." The ER doctor was at her elbow with a form to sign. She took the binder, turning to him and glancing over his shoulder at House's too-still form.

"I'm giving the anaesthesia." It was a snap decision – a moment in time and out of time. "Get him up to the OR and prep him – I want no one in that room when I get there, do you understand me?" She was snapping out the orders and the doctor wavered before her. "Anyone who doesn't vacate the OR will be fired," she added as an afterthought – tagged onto the end of an order she fully expected to be obeyed anyway. He looked at her in shock before nodding. Taking the signed clipboard, he nodded to the nurses and they wheeled House's bed away swiftly.

She watched until they rounded the corner and were out of sight, and just like gasping for air, she felt her control slip back into place – correcting the skewed world around her. She turned back to see his fellows' shocked faces.

"Do you think it's a good idea –" Foreman was the only one to speak and she glared at him. She was angry – the emotion spewed through her body like vitriolic acid, and he was as good a target as any.

"Are you _questioning_ my authority, Dr. Foreman?" She ground the words to dust as she uttered them, and he shook his head quickly. "I'll come out with updates."

"Can't we go watch –" Cameron was pleading – little girl hopeful as her blood-smeared hands reached out, and Cuddy stepped back, repulsed.

"No." She stepped around the group and moved quickly, almost a jog, as she rushed through doors and hallways. When she finally hit the pharmacy, she levelled a glare at the technician. "Take a break."

"It's not my –" he protested.

"Then you're fired."

"No! No! I'll – I'm taking a break." Cuddy would have never been one to describe anyone as scurrying – but the rate at which the tech moved would have come very close.

She didn't bother with the shelves, opting instead to open the locked door in the back and scanning through the supplies there. "Ketamine." She was whispering to herself when she saw it – small bottles labelled Ketalar – and snatched the vials down. It wasn't used in hospitals a lot – small doses as a local aesthetic – and she would need a lot. She shoved the bottles into her pockets with hands that shook, before she turned back and exited the room swiftly.

She closed and locked the pharmacy, before traveling out to the elevators. The bottles clinked musically as she moved into the operating room, and nodded once. The personnel gathered there left, and she moved over to his IV pole.

"God, House – " Her voice was a shaky whisper, and she pressed a shaking palm to his head as she tried not to look at his gaping wounds. "Please." She felt tears burning the back of her eyes as she leaned down by him, so close her trembling breaths stirred the fabric of his cap. "Don't die."

She stood just as quickly, pulling the vials out and placing them on the tray in front of her. She drew the first needle, her hands shaking violently. Another pair of hands reached past her, taking the vial and needle.

"I'll do that. You're more likely to stab yourself." Brenda's voice was dry, and Cuddy turned to her in shock.

"Leave," Cuddy protested, but Brenda just placed the filled needle next to her and started to fill another.

"No. And I know you won't fire me."

"Brenda – this is – illegal, and I could get my ass handed to me for this." Cuddy's voice was grateful, and Brenda's eyes met hers – fathomless and dark above her mask.

"I know. Which is why you're the one actually administering it. Come on – they won't stay out forever." Brenda moved on to the next needle and Cuddy nodded – before picking up the first needle and staring down at him for a moment. She had never wanted to be here again – watching them slice him open. She closed her eyes on the memories and took refuge in the obsidian behind her eyes, before opening them and sliding the needle into his IV tube.

"Please." It was barely a whisper – and more than a plea as she depressed the plunger and reached for another needle.

* * *

_Guilt obviously isn't a comfortable emotion for Stacy. She fidgets and reeks of it as you prepare to put him under. It's easier for you – and it makes you wonder why. Does she love him more than you do? Or are you just so accustomed to it that it's like breathing. His eyes are lingering on you as you fill his IV line, and his hand reaches out for yours, touching it briefly. 'Thank you.'_

_You step back as Stacy draws his attention, eyes filled with tears, whispering that she loves him and she's sorry. His eyes meet yours over her shoulder and he is almost asleep, but whispers out an 'I love you' __before closing his eyes. Your hands clutch the chart in front of you and you have to exit the room before you can hear her tears, or let her see yours._

_He meant her. You have to tell yourself this as you walk numbly toward Wilson's office. He meant Stacy – because if he meant you, you won't be able to do this. Wilson opens his door silently and hugs you, because you are crying so hard you can't speak at first. He thinks the coma is real – that you actually gave in to House's suggestion to ride out the pain._

_"Lisa..." His voice is soft and you feel like you should warn him – without involving him. You and Stacy will be stained with guilt when House wakes up – but he needs someone who wasn't involved. Wilson has to be that someone._

_'Would you rather have someone love you and die, or hate you and live?' Your voice is a shaky whisper and he looks at you with sudden concern._

_'Cuddy – what are you – '_

_'Alive is better, right? __Even if he hates me.'__ You aren't going to pretend he may forgive you one day – you don't expect he ever will, not really. He'll still have Wilson – and Stacy, if she can survive it. She has to, because the alternative isn't acceptable._

_'Cuddy – '_

_'You'll be there, right? You won't leave him? Other than me Wilson, you're – '_

_'Of course I will, but what are you doing, Lisa?' _

_You don't answer him, smiling through your tears and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 'Promise me you won't leave him. And promise me you'll never tell him about this conversation – '_

_'Lisa... what conversation?'__ But you are already pushing away with a sad smile, exiting the room with a consent form clutched in your hands and an OR already booked for two hours from now._

* * *

She should be more understanding, she knew. She should allow them inside – allow them to judge her, because by now, everyone knew what had happened in that OR. Knew why House was in a coma now. He was pale – but his breathing was steady and the sounds felt like whispers of comfort as she sat in the uncomfortable chair next to his bed and ignored her hospital for the first time in years. 

Brenda had been coming in every half hour, checking his vitals and charting them even though it wasn't her floor and she should have been in clinic. The first time she came in, she warned Cuddy that the story had circulated. "Everything from you putting him in the coma for a week of quiet, to you attempting to kill him and _I_ saved his life." Brenda snorted at this as she checked House's blood pressure and rolled her eyes.

"He'd hate that." Cuddy smiled sadly and Brenda nodded and grinned.

"I know." Her smile was twisted and she shrugged before leaving Cuddy alone again.

The next time she entered, she had a stack of files and Cuddy's laptop – mumbling about workaholics and telling her House's team was still hovering outside. Cuddy thanked her for the laptop and didn't pay attention to the rest, her eyes constantly tracking the rise and fall of his chest.

She didn't hold his hand – glass walls and her own fears prevented that. She didn't touch his face or pull his sheets up – she didn't even check his stitches, aside from a cursory glance when Brenda checked his dressing. She just watched him – and it felt familiar and comforting. Watching him always had.

* * *

_'You are a stalker__ Lisa.' _

_Your hands are gripping the porcelain sink so tightly you think it may just break. This was not how it was supposed to be. Your dreams about university did not include you hiding in a bar bathroom while you obsess about some guy who probably doesn't even know your name._

_You groan lightly, leaning your head against the mirror. You concentrate on your breathing pattern because it's something to do other than stare at your pale reflection and think on how exactly you came to be a stalker anyway. This did not happen to you. Things like this did not happen to Lisa Cuddy. You were first in your class – and you were already accepted at Harvard medical school next year. You had everything you wanted, so why were you hiding in a bathroom like some teenage girl with confidence issues?_

_ 'This is ridiculous.' Your voice is weak, barely above a whisper as you stare at yourself hard – trying to __will__ yourself to leave this bathroom and then go home. You shouldn't be here. The lighting in the bathroom makes you look sick – too pale and the shadows under your eyes deepening. Perfect, really._

_It had started six months ago – on the day after your finals finished. Every morning for the past three years you had gotten up, and gone to the track to run. You loved how quiet it was, how the ground itself sounded muffled under your feet. Running gave you energy – woke you up and got your mind ready for the day. You had just finished a particularly gruesome set of finals though – and you had slept in that morning. _

_When you finally managed to get your run in – it was almost four in the afternoon, and you had been the only one on the track, despite that. __But not for long.__ He had run past you not long after, long and lean and tinged almost pink in the glare of the setting sun. He was faster than you, and out of pure instinct you had increased your speed, hungry for the sharp tang of competition. His legs were longer but you were already warmed up and __the two of__ you were even for just a little while. You drew up next to him, and when his eyes met yours for a second – not even a whole one, just a fraction as you felt the electric gaze slide over your skin – you stumbled, slowing down slightly as the air squeezing through your lungs burned and your muscles protested, quivering slightly as you resumed a more normal pace. _

_You glared at his back – you hated to lose – but he didn't turn back or even glance over his shoulder. You thought maybe he was smiling though – and it caused a burning much deeper than mere oxygen in your lungs. It was in your blood. You had to win._

_You haven't jogged in the morning since._

_High-pitched whispers distract you from the memory as two girls in too-tight shirts and too-short skirts stumbled into the harshly lit room. You think that it must have been dark in the room when they got ready – because under the unforgiving fluorescent lighting their makeup is caked on and garishly bright. You frown at your own reflection quickly – perhaps you're being unkind – but all you can see of the other girls in the mirror is bright blue eye shadow and too-red lips: it screams, 'I'm easy and cheap'. Your own makeup is understated – or was before you drank a few too many shots and ran your hands over your face a few too many times, hoping the edges of your vision would clear and become less blurry. All it did was smudge your mascara – a dark uneven line under your eyes, making them look darker and scarier than they were. Or maybe that was the direct result of you following him all night, watching him intently._

_One of the girls is tripping, laughing ridiculously as she stumbles in shoes she probably couldn't walk in sober. You detested those women who wore high heels and had no idea how to actually function in them__Y__ou think your mother would be horrified by the sight and the thought causes you to laugh slightly – a mumble as you can't seem to lift your head from the mirror or make this nauseous feeling go away._

_Your mother is horrified by a lot of things – you included._

_She would__ however__ fully approve of you right now – going out of your way to get a man to notice you because that's what good girls did. Got married to doctors and lawyers and popped out two point five kids – even if what said girl wanted was a career __of her own__. Of course, he probably wasn't Jewish – and that would be a deal breaker anyway. You heave a sigh of relief and the mirror fogs in the corner. You don't know if you can handle the thought of your mother approving. 'Please don't be Jewish__' __y__ou mumble and one of the girls – with a shorter skirt and bigger hair – casts you an odd look. You don't care._

_You __had __resigned yourself long ago to the fact that girls – women – simply didn't like you. You never did know why – if it was your breasts or your ass or the way you could look them in the eye and see right through them __– but__ they often took one look at you and hated you instantly. Which was fine with you – boys were easier to understand anyway and it just made you more aggressive. You didn't play games to get what you wanted. You just got it._

_Which was why you had dr__u__nk a little too much and stared a little too hard tonight.__ You were playing games and the idea of it sat so ill at ease that you needed those extra shots just to come to terms with the fact._

_'Aren't you an undergrad? What are you doing here?' The girl with the medium height hair was speaking now – her voice dripping with venom as she leaned against the sink next to you and leaned forward __unsteadily. You ignore her, still breathing evenly. She would be part of the graduating class – not the med school class__ you pray for humanity's sake – but a grad student none the less. Of course you can't seem to picture her majoring in anything other than cosmetology – but you __try__ to give her the benefit of the doubt. No one looking at you would probably be able to tell you were about to be a med student either. 'Well?' Her voice is sharper now and it makes you open your eyes and glare at her._

_'TA invited me.' Technically true – you are friends with the TA for your biology class__. A__nd while he may be under the misapprehension that his hands will become more familiar with certain parts of your anatomy – you are not. He was a means to an end – namely being involved in a social circle above you. __**His **__social circle, or so you had thought.__ This was the first time you'd ever actually seen him at any of these parties though._

_'Whatever.' This is spoken so snidely that really you can't be blamed for moving your own foot out to the left as she walks away. She trips, and her friend catches her in a comical move. You watch with a small satisfied smile, still leaning against the cold mirror and wishing you were anywhere but here. She shoots a glare at you but doesn't press the issue as she leaves the room in a huff._

_You are happy to be left alone with your thoughts – thoughts that of course will invariably turn back to him._

* * *

"Cuddy – I got here as quick as I could. What in the hell is going on?" Wilson didn't knock and wait for approval to enter, he just walked in and pulled up a chair next to hers. The dumbfounded expressions on the faces of House's team outside were almost comical – if she liked that sort of black humour. 

"Walls are glass, James," she pointed out mildly. "I just saw you getting the news."

"Yeah, well, according to Cameron, you want House dead – put him in a coma and probably hired the gunman." He paused and winced under her glare. "Of course, she's in shock." Cuddy snorted at that and Wilson leaned forward, his eyes travelling worriedly along House's form. He reached one hand out, and rested it on House's shin for a moment before turning back to her purposefully. "What happened?"

"He was shot. He's in a coma," she responded dully, and he frowned at her disapprovingly. Of course, most choices she had made throughout her life would be looked at the same way – if only he knew about them.

"What _happened_, Lisa?" he asked again, and she sighed heavily, staring at the white gauze taped to House's neck for a moment before responding.

"He's in a chemically induced coma."

"I know that – you gave him ketamine. Why?" Wilson's voice was soft, but she could hear the subtle flint beneath it.

"There's a study. Patients with complex regional pain syndrome – "

"God, Cuddy." Wilson sighed and ran a hand through his hair before glaring at her. "He doesn't _have_ CRPS – he has conversion –"

"No, _you_ think he has a conversion disorder!" she snapped, that ever-present anger that simmered below the surface bubbling forward.

"His pain hasn't been as bad now that he's getting over Stacy –"

"Oh, shut up, Wilson. You have no clue." Her voice was bitter and she laughed slightly at the ridiculousness of it all. "He didn't tell you about his pain."

"What, and he did tell you? Pardon the hell out of me, Cuddy, but you two finally speaking again doesn't make the last eight years go away –"

"They _never_ went away, Wilson!" She was yelling now – even if House could hear them, it wasn't like he would stop her anyway. "You have _no_ clue. No idea about our history and you never will. He came to _me_ with the ketamine treatment. He asked _me_ to go with him to Germany to get it done. He trusted _me_. Not you –"

"And what? I'm supposed to take your word for it?!" Wilson stood abruptly, the chair scraping back against the tiled floor in protest. She stood as well, facing off with him as she finally was able to focus on something other than House's breathing pattern and her own memories.

"I'm his doctor. So yes. And it's too late now anyway. He was right, you know – he said you wouldn't understand –"

Wilson laughed, and the sound wrapped around the room mockingly as she closed her mouth with a snap. "And when exactly was he confiding all this in you?"

She shook her head numbly and pointed at the door, where Brenda was standing and watching silently. "No. I'm not doing this here – and I'm not leaving him. If it is CRPS, he'll wake up in a week and I'll be proven right. If not, you can boast all about it to him. But not to me. Not now. Leave."

"You can't do that –"

"I am his _doctor_ –"

"I'm his best friend!" Wilson protested vehemently, and she stepped into him, pushing her face close to his.

"Then _act_ like it. And leave." Her hand was shaking and Wilson glared at her once more before turning on his heel and leaving, pushing past Brenda and joining the team outside. Brenda shot him a look – speaking rapidly to all of them, before she moved over and closed the blinds.

"Thank you," Cuddy sighed, before sinking back into her chair and watching him again. He wasn't here to fight with her – or against her. She'd gladly take either right now. She pressed a shaking hand to her eyes, until the black behind her lids shot through with reds and yellows and blues – all seeping together into a kaleidoscope of color.

"No problem." Brenda's voice was dry and she perused House's chart once more. After a moment, she sat in the chair Wilson had just vacated and took Cuddy's hand silently. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Clothes. And my assistant."

"I already cancelled this week's meetings. Didn't figure you'd be moving." Brenda squeezed her hand slightly and turned to stare at House. "It's weird. Seeing him quiet. Not natural."

"No, it's not," Cuddy whispered, and Brenda nodded, before standing and moving to the door silently. "Not natural at all."

* * *

_It had taken__ you three months to find out his name. You ran together every__day – even weekends when you would smile a little harder and run a little faster. He couldn't have a girlfriend, you think as your strides lengthen and you stare hard at the undulating muscles in his legs. What girlfriend would let her boyfriend leave in the middle of the afternoon on a weekend? There were much better things to do than run, you think as your eyes move upward, across the breadth of his shoulders. __Much better things.__ Your smile widens just a bit as you pull ahead of him slightly and maintain the lead. Your head is held high, because now he's watching you and it feels like vindication. It feels like victory._

_He passes you again five minutes later, but you don't mind because you've missed the view from back here, and if you could __beat him__ for five minutes you will get better. Eventually you will kick his ass all over this track and he will like it._

_You weren't exactly seeking out knowledge about him. Initially it fell in your lap – a discussion about your paper with your TA and he looked beyond you and glared. You looked too and saw him there, leaning against a pillar across the quad and smiling charmingly down at some blonde. You hate blondes. The TA explains about him; Greg House, famous because he was kicked out of Hopkins – __**Hopkins**__, he stresses, like the fact alone is enough to declare him evil – for cheating and has made a name for himself here by sleeping __with__ the professor's wife and __through__ half of his classes. You ask if he's failing and the TA just glares harder._

_It should have made you go back to your room and set your alarm an hour and a half earlier, should have made you go back to your old routine. He __had __slept with a married woman – if it was true – and he __had __cheated. You are Lisa __C__uddy__ after all, consummate good girl. But you don't, and the next day when his eyes slide across your body you feel a thrill of something reach from your chest down to your toes. He's a challenge, you think, and you particularly excel at those._

_Once you apply yourself, it is so easy to learn everything about him. He is top of the class – he is graduating this year – he is a serial dater. He is caustic and acerbic – his personality is not liked by anyone but you think that if you ever spoke to him – you would like him. You see him in the afternoons __and fe__e__l that same thrill skirt along your nerve endings and you know it would be true. He would amuse you, you think, as you run behind him. You could almost picture it in your mind, his smile – his wit – his hands trailing along your skin... you do not pull ahead of him that day__ because after that thought you cannot seem to hit the right rhythm in your stride. He glances at you across the field as he leaves – a lightning quick look__ but you feel it anyway and blush._

_For two more months you run, beating him some days, trailing behind others, until time is up and the warm air of May is wrapping around you as you run and you know you are out of time. He will not be here in the fall. You will not be here in the fall. And all of this running will have been for nothing._

* * *

She slept badly, woken by the rustling of the night nurse and the constant beep of House's monitors. She distracted herself with work – answering e-mails and finished the personnel reviews she had been working on that morning. It felt like a lifetime ago, before his blood has been spilled and he had slashed across her mind – in magic marker. 

She continued to watch him the whole time – eerily lit in navy, a blend of the inky dark around them and the blue glow from her laptop screen. Despite the noise from the machines, and the sound of his breathing – it seemed quiet as she sat back in that uncomfortable chair, and used her laptop as a pretence. She was working, not staring at him. She wasn't worried – just concerned – and Deans of Medicine routinely sat at their employees bedsides while simultaneously kicking out the staff and his friends.

The dark was comforting anyway – the night nurse didn't come as often as Brenda had – and she felt safe, sitting alone in the dark and whispering to him even though he couldn't hear her. At least, she wanted to whisper – somehow she felt if she spoke to him – out loud – it would be a goodbye. And they had never indulged in those. Not even in the very beginning.

She closed her computer, moving it to the table next to her, and leaned forward, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden dark. When they had, she reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing down his arm and finally gripping his hand tightly.

"I feel like if I say anything heartwarming and sentimental to you – you'll just wake up in a week and laugh your ass off at me. So I'm not enabling you. What I will say is this –" Her voice was a dry whisper – getting lodged in her throat and making her feel like she needed a drink. "– you _will _wake up. And you _will_ be better. You haven't been wrong yet, House – so don't start now. And then you will handle Wilson and your team and everything will be normal. As normal as life with you gets, anyway. You will _not_ die." He remained silent, his face oddly young-looking, forcibly reminding her of them years ago.

"I won't let you."

* * *

_He like__s__ blondes – and the mere fact irritates you but you have a few more drinks and decide that he chooses them because they are easy. Brunettes are challenging and too engaging. It sounds better in your head__–although why are you even making excuses for him anyway? You take one deep breath and then another, pushing yourself up to standing as you look at your reflection once more. Your eyes look almost navy, dark and filled with equally stained thoughts as you smooth a hand over your hair and brush winkles out of your dress. If this was all you were going to do__ you could sit in your own bathroom at your apartment. There was no point in being here._

_Your hands slip on the sticky wood as you push the bathroom door open and you weave slightly as you walk. The blurriness is still there, but your feet are steady as you move around people you don't care about, drinking way too much and talking far too loudly. You don't look around because you know if you see him, your feet will halt, and you will be unable to move again. _

_When you finally push your way out of the front door, the air is warm and refreshing as it hits you in the face. You breathe as if you were drowning, great gasps as your lungs fill and deflate repeatedly. '__Lise__ – where are you going?' TA has followed you, and his hand is on your back, hot and sweating through the thin cotton of your dress. You feel your skin crawl as you shoot him a glare that is so fierce he drops his hand immediately. _

_'Home.'__ Your reply is short, much like your patience and he senses this as he steps back._

_'Come on,__Lise__– '__ You grind your teeth at the nickname that you hate as he continues, oblivious. 'The party is barely started.'_

_'It's not my kind of party.' Your voice is almost polite – almost__ but not quite._

_'Well if it's something more private you're looking for__–__'__ He steps closer and his hand brushes against your breast__. A__nd you want to nail him right in the nuts with __you__r __ four__-__inch heels but you jerk back instead, levelling a glare on him that __makes__ him falter slightly. 'I thought__–__'_

_'Wrong.' Your voice is firm and soft and he steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets._

_'You bitch – you made me think__–__'_

_'What?' Your eyes narrow and he frowns for a moment. 'Go to hell.' You spit out and he flips you off – so mature__– before turning back into the party. After the door swings shut again and you move a few more feet from it, you remember he was your ride home. 'Fuck.'_

_You could get a cab, but you decide to walk a few blocks before trying. It would take forever right here – and the night __is__ warm anyway. You begin to step forward when a hand on your elbow pulls you back. You freeze, a familiar sensation shooting across your skin. Familiar but a thousand times more intense, and you think you can't breathe – e__ven if you wanted to. You know who it is__ before you turn around. You shouldn't be able to know that without knowing him._

_'I almost didn't recognize you without the sports bra__' __h__e stated, his voice __lower than you expecte__d, rougher but it suits him and you find yourself smiling. 'I would have talked to you months ago if I knew you were hiding those babies in there.'_

_'I'm sorry, do I know you?' Your voice is much more confident than you thought it would be and he stares at you hard for a moment, as if trying to decide the level of seriousness in your tone._

_'If not __then__ it was awfully inappropriate of you to be staring at my ass so hard earlier.' He is blunt and you laugh, really laugh – the sound full and dark on the night air. He stares down at you in confusion before smiling in return – only slightly, but it is better than any full__-__fledged grin you have seen him level on some moronic blonde – it feels like you pulled it out of him, and it leaves you more satisfied for the effort._

_'It's a nice ass.' You are just as blunt and he eyes you for a moment, sizing you up and down._

_'You've seen enough of it.' You nod and wrap your arms around yourself, drawing attention to your cleavage intentionally._

_'Did you actually want something? __Other than to stare at my breasts?'_

_'Touchy, aren't we?' He grins__ for half a second, his eyes deliberately lingering on your neckline. You don't really mind. 'I wanted to introduce myself. Greg House__–__'_

_'I know.' You speak simply and he stares at you for a silent beat, his eyes trained on yours and you feel ready to explode from the suspended tension of it all. Time has frozen you to the spot, and you know – deep down – that you were right that first time your eyes met his. Somehow you manage to drag a breath in, the air __stirring__ you into action as you turn away from him and walk quickly. Each step echoes your thoughts. This is a bad idea. __Bad idea.__Bad idea._

_His steps echo yours, in blatant disregard for any warning signs. __'And?'__ His voice is a challenge as he keeps up with you, walking along beside you easily as you plough ahead. The night seems too dark and the street lights seem too bright as they swim in the outside edge of your vision. You have had too much to drink to be walking and you halt suddenly, causing him to crash into you. His hand__s__ grip your shoulders in surprise but after the required second he doesn't let go or step back. You shiver under his hands, wishing he were closer and farther away all at once._

_'What?' You speak somewhat incoherently and his hands move up higher on your shoulders until his fingers are just brushing against the exposed skin at you collarbone. _

_'What's your name? Or should I just call you __Lise__?' He speaks snidely and you shudder, knowing he had been watching you too. It somehow seems right – almost a justification for your own actions tonight._

_'Lisa.' You clear your throat softly as his finger starts to trace along your neckline, his skin rough and warm against yours. __'Cuddy.'_

_'Hmm... Lisa.'__ But it sounds wrong, too short and harsh in his low voice._

_'Cuddy.'__ You repeat stupidly and he chuckles against your ear. The world is tilting and you shake your head to correct the angle. It causes you to sway and his hands grip your shoulders now with a different purpose._

_'Cuddy.'__ You shiver as he speaks, and he draws your last name out like it's a promise, wrapping around his tongue slowly before slipping out of his mouth against his will. It's so erotic you turn around but your heel catches and his hands are the only things keeping you up. His eyes narrow and his grip __is__ bruising. 'How much did you drink?'_

_'Too much__' __y__ou mutter and you close your eyes, resting your forehead against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat and yours, a thundering symphony in your ears as the edges of your vision darken. You know it had been stupid to drink that much – you thought you needed it for courage. Now it was ruining everything. He laugh__s__, and it rumble__s__ through his chest, the vibration slamming into you and making you swallow the sudden bile in your throat._

_'This could have been so much fun__ too. Ah well, there's always tomorrow__ Lisa Cuddy.' The bile is almost bitterer at his words. There is no tomorrow, but he doesn't know that. There is your car – packed with boxes and waiting to be driven home for the weekend – one last visit with your mother to suffer through before continuing on to Cambridge and starting summer courses at Harvard. You never take a break – and it has enabled you to graduate pre__-__med a year early – it will do the same for med school as well. The drive from Ann Arbour to Grand Rapids isn't a long one – but your mother is expecting you early, before lunch at least._

_He is pulling you along to a cab, and you want to voice your protest but really, what's the point anyway? All it could be was one night – you were going to Harvard and he was... not. An insipid voice whisper__s __in your head something about one night being better than none, but your more practical side – and really who but you would even still have one after drinking that much? – is saying that maybe it was better not to know. If you never know how his hands feel on your skin, or how his mouth would feel against your own – if you never know how perfectly he fits you, you can never miss it, right?_

_'Don't think you're going to get away though. I can beat you in a race, remember.' His voice is teasing now as he holds open the door of the cab and helps you into it. The sudden turn of events seems to have cleared your head somewhat, and you hesitate knowing that you could convince him to get in with you – there's still time. But instead you smile with false cheer, grinning even though sitting down against the stained upholstery is almost painful. His hand brushes yours for a moment longer than strictly necessary and it slices along your heart, rubbing it raw. It all seems so pointless now – and you can only blink and smile as the door closes and he steps back. If only you had spoken to him that first day, if only he had noticed you the countless other times you __had __crossed his vision on the campus of Ann Arbour__…._

_'Where to__ sweetheart?'_

_You sigh, giving your address to the cab driver in a low voice. __If __only_'_s__ are all that's left, and you don't look back as the cab pulls away. You wouldn't be able to see through your sudden inexplicable tears anyway._

_You don't see him again for six years._

* * *

Wilson was back again the next day, pacing the hallway outside and glaring through the window as only he can. His glare is never a glare, per say – more of a disappointed gaze that makes every inch of guilt she's ever felt in her life press down on her that much harder until she is positive she will be swallowed whole by it. 

Wilson's mother must have been the world's greatest guilt-tripper. Sadly, Cuddy wouldn't know – because despite almost fifteen years of knowing him, she'd never asked about or met his family. House probably knew, she mused. But then again, maybe not.

Either way, he was out there – staring and perfecting the pained expression he often wore, until she ran a hand through her uncombed hair and slid the door open with a sigh. "I need a shower."

"Clearly." He was standing at the window with his arms crossed and not looking at her at all, despite addressing her.

"Can you sit with him?"

"He doesn't need someone with him 24/7, Cuddy. He'd hate it." His voice was sure – and still smug despite their argument yesterday. Clearly, he was still smarting.

"I know. But _I_ need someone with him at all times. Please, Wilson?" He looked at her then – his eyes watching her carefully for a moment as a thoughtful expression slid over his face.

"Alright." He moved past her, taking the chair she just vacated and sinking into it wearily. "He looks different. Younger maybe."

"I know. I have absolute faith I'll be wishing him back into a coma two weeks from now, though." She smiled as she spoke – trying to apologize to him for yesterday – but sucking at apologies was a trait she and House shared.

"Do you really think this could work?" It wasn't an apology or even remotely close, but she took it that way anyway. It was the closest Wilson had come to thinking maybe he had been wrong and they had been right.

"God, I hope so."

"How did he – you, me – how did we get here, Cuddy?" Wilson shook his head as he spoke, and she shrugged, even though his eyes were trained on House – watching just like she had. "It seems like five minutes ago–"

"I know," she responded softly, and he looked over at her for a moment – his eyes dark pools of memories mixed with fear and worry. She was well aware that she loved House. But so did he. "I'll be quick." She slipped away before Wilson's tortured eyes could make her feel any guiltier than she already did. If that was even possible.

* * *

_You need to get out of here __–__g__o for a run, escape for a few short moments__B__ut if you __do__that__ you are sure you__r__ asshole of a new boss __will__be all over you. It __won't__matter that you just worked forty hours straight, or that now – in your fellowship – you would expect slightly better hours than an intern. You flip the page __of__ the file in front of you as you eye your salad listlessly. It, much like your life at the moment, looks completely unappetizing. Closing the file with a snap, you rest your forehead on the table, your mid wandering over the past few years._

_You graduated right on schedule – three years at Harvard and you were second in your class. Had you waited and graduated in four years instead of three, chances __are__ you would have been top. When faced with the choice between an internship at Detroit Gen. or Princeton Gen. – the choice had been clear. For once in your life you hadn't made a pro/con list or considered the career ramifications – Detroit was far too close to your mother and her blind 'dates' with nice Jewish lawyers and business owners. Even now – when you were a doctor for God's sake – she still wasn't proud. Because there was no house with a white picket fence and two point five kids. So you ran._

_All the way to Jersey – where you completed your internship and residency in the obstetrics department, completing your specialized training for endocrinology. When the time for your fellowship came along__ however, you fought for the position here at PPTH. Dr. Surrey is at the top of his field – and more importantly__ is two years away from retirement. You can learn all you can, and hopefully take over his position when he goes. You don't worry about other applicants – you know when the time comes, the job will be yours._

_You push your head harder against the cheap linoleum table, wondering if you could wish the entire day away. Dr. Surrey gave you a thyroid cancer patient three days ago and you know the patient is dying. __Much quicker than you would like her to.__ Moving from obstetrics to cancer is foreign to you and suddenly for the first time since you were twelve you find yourself afraid. Unsure if you can do this. You want to run. Need to run. Instead you lift your head and pull your coffee closer to you, taking a long sip and keeping an eye on your wristwatch. You__r__ lunch break is another forty minutes at least and you have no intention of moving until then – unless you are paged._

_The cafeteria is busy – doctors and nurses moving around and there is a gentle murmur of voices in the background. You sigh, taking another sip and wishing you had at least brought a medical text to read_

_'Lisa Cuddy?' You __freeze,__ coffee halfway to your mouth. You haven't heard that voice in six years, and you wonder if it says something about the sad state of your life that you recognize it immediately._

_He moves around your table, dropping a tray to the right of you. You have to peer almost straight up, and you see a smaller man standing next to him, looking somewhat amused. 'Greg House.' You debated pretending to not remember – but what would be the point_

_'Wilson, sit down.' He has already dropped down into his seat and is staring at you with amusement. 'What a coincidence.' He nods at his friend – Wilson – who sits reluctantly and smiles apologetically across at you. He looks... like every guy your mother had ever wanted you to date. __Reliable with a side of nice and completely uninteresting to you.__ You smile anyway though – because he isn't dating you __and__ you have no reason to be irritated by him. 'James Wilson__ this is Lisa Cuddy. The running girl__' __h__e adds significantly and Wilson's eyes widen in surprise. You don't know if you should be flattered or afraid._

_'I thought you made that up__.'_

_'You can't make things like that up. Yup – she totally stalked me. So what are you doing here?' He is addressing you now and you narrow your eyes across at him. You did not stalk him. __Much._

_'Well this coat and funny badge say I work here.' You wave at your lab coat – fitted and pinstriped, a gift from your mother in a rare moment when she forgot to be upset you were a doctor. Of course it was a very flattering cut – so maybe she was just hoping some nice male doctor would see it and fall in love. Wearing your own clothes to work is one of the only perks of your fellowship – no more scrubs. You hated those. You even keep three extra outfits at work – just in case. No need to wear scrubs unless you have to__ right?_

_You pointedly eye his lack of anything that would denote him as a doctor. He is wearing jeans and a shirt, with a suit coat thrown over it. Noticing your gaze__ he pulls his __ID__ out of his pocket. 'See? I'm a real doctor. __In charge of my own department and everything.'__ You stare at his badge – Dr. Gregory House, Department of Nephrology – and you blink. It's odd to see him like this. You take the opportunity to study him silently. His hair is shorter, and he hasn't shaved. He isn't as lanky as you remember – his shoulders are broader and his waist thicker, but it all looks good on him. 'Wilson here kills people.' You blink in surprise, your thoughts scattering as Wilson winces across the table._

_'Oncology__' __h__e explains almost apologetically and you nod. 'So – tell me, what was House like in university?'_

_You shrug, taking another sip of coffee as House – it's odd to think of him with a name – begins to eat. 'I don't really know. I just ran with him every __afternoon__. We didn't talk.'_

_'Too busy staring at my ass.' House __is__ speaking around his food and you roll your eyes. 'Oh don't deny the truth__ Cuddy. You're avoiding my question anyway. Why are you here?'_

_'Jersey was as far as I could get__ I did my intern__ship__ and residency at Princeton Gen. Now I'm here for my fellowship.' He ha__s__ reached for the file under your tray, snatching it and reading it before you could react._

_'Endocrinologist?'__ He leaf__s__ through the file idly with one hand while eating his sandwich __with__ the other. '__Either that or you're an oncologist and__ Wilson neglected to mention his new, totally hot fellow.'_

_'Your powers of deduction are brilliant.' You speak dryly and try not to let the small thrill that went through you at being called hot show._

_'So Lisa, __d__id you attend med school __at Michigan__ as well?' Wilson cleared his throat before speaking and you shoot him a grateful glance._

_'Uh no, actually.__ I just did my undergrad at Ann Arbour.' You take another sip of coffee and find yourself the subject of two interested looks. 'I went to Harvard__' __y__ou finally mumble, and Wilson looks surprised while House's look seems a little more unidentifiable. 'And call me Cuddy__' __y__ou add absent__-__mindedly as you realize suddenly – you barely know this man. Not really._

_'Interesting__' House mumbles through another bite of his sandwich and you turn toward him. __'Top of your class, of course.'_

_'Second__' __y__ou mutter, shooting a glare before turning the conversational tables as it were. 'How long have you been here?'_

_'Well I've been here forever__–__'__Wilson answers enthusiastically. 'House__ on the other hand__ has only been here a year. He was fired from four other hospitals.'_

_'I have issues with authority__' House add__s__ solemnly and you choke back a laugh – it's not difficult to picture at all. __'__So.__ Since we're intrinsically connected and all – you should join us for dinner__–__'__Wilson is glaring at House as he speaks, and House is ignoring him blatantly._

_'House.__ You know that I only manage to escape once a__ week__ – and you know how Julie feels about women.'_

_'He's married. __Sad tale.__ He met said maiden – rescued her and found himself tied down for the next two years. I'm waiting on a divorce any day now. Oh and she really doesn't like other women – and Wilson really does__ if you know what I mean, so you just steer clear of him.' House __speaks__ in an aside to you as though Wilson __isn't anywhere__ near him. It didn't seem to faze the other man__ however, as he just rolled his eyes and continued eating._

_'All the better to save myself for you.'__ You speak bitingly, but House either doesn't hear that or chooses to ignore it – you're not sure__ which__ – and he nods enthusiastically. Your pager vibrates at just that moment and you stand, leaning down before you leave and giving him a nice view down your blouse in the process. 'You'll need to try harder than that.' As you walk away, you work at putting an extra sway in your steps, all too aware of the eyes watching you. You smile as you throw your empty cup in the trash on your way out the door. Amazing how you can go from needing escape to never wanting to leave in the space of thirty minutes._

* * *

She eventually let his team in, too – thirty minutes at a time. Foreman only visited once, but thankfully Chase continued to accompany Cameron, who clutched House's hand in a way he would detest, shooting the occasional death glare at Cuddy. Chase just winced sympathetically and nodded at her before they left. 

She and Wilson had been divvying up hours – allowing her to shower and change, grab food and attend a board meeting. She didn't take any donor meetings, though – she was not in the mood to finesse anyone.

"Brought you tea. Herbal." Brenda placed the cup in front of Cuddy and she shot a grateful smile at the other woman.

"Thanks."

She sipped it thoughtfully as Brenda moved around the room, replacing IV bags and quickly checking stitches. When she finished, she sat next to Cuddy, glancing at her before speaking. "So. Is the baby his?"

Cuddy choked on the tea, sending the hot liquid down her throat too quickly and causing her eyes to water. "What?!"

"Well, you're not drinking coffee anymore. Plus you have folic acid in your make-up bag – I may have noticed when packing your things. Which means a baby. And judging by the way you two have been prancing around each other this year..." Brenda simply shrugged instead of finishing the thought, and Cuddy stared at her with shock.

"I don't know why you and House don't get along. You're just like him," Cuddy spat as she took a deep breath and another sip of tea. "I don't think I need to tell you that this goes nowhere – "

"I am not a gossip," Brenda shot back mildly. "You know that."

"I'm not pregnant. Maybe. We've been trying." Even admitting that out loud – sharing it with someone other than House, seemed like a huge deal. It felt like the tension that had been creeping up into her neck had let go suddenly, receding down her back with sweet relief.

"Oh my God," Brenda breathed out, looking at Cuddy with surprise. "Oh my God! I thought – I mean, I didn't know, but seriously? _House?!"_

Cuddy let out a small chuckle, which quickly grew into a full-fledged laugh, and she smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. "You don't know him. Not really."

"He's an ass," Brenda stated – as if there was nothing else she needed to know.

"Yeah, he is." Cuddy's smile grew and Brenda simply shook her head and moved off the subject – instead telling her about Wilson's ex-wife confronting a peds nurse, and how the night janitor had been seen sniffling while he mopped the fourth floor hallway two nights ago. "I thought you weren't a gossip." Cuddy smiled wryly and Brenda shrugged.

"Well I don't tell everyone the gossip. Just you," Brenda pointed out, and Cuddy nodded, glancing over at House as she did so.

"Cuddy?" Wilson's voice was tentative and both women looked at him standing in the doorway. Brenda stood without being asked and exited the room, shooting a small smile at Cuddy as she left, and Wilson stepped inside the room.

He was uncharacteristically silent – his face a war of emotion as he stared at House sadly, before finally heaving a tortured sigh and turning to her. "What?" She smiled slightly – Brenda's company had lightened her mood somewhat – seeping light into the black that seemed to surround her these days – tinting everything a pearly grey, like a sky after a thunderstorm.

"I've been going over and over this in my head. You sitting with House, you knowing about the treatment, you being at his place – him being in that mood the last few weeks –" Wilson's eyes were pained as he stared at his best friend and hesitated. "How long –" He paused and cleared his throat awkwardly as she felt the temperature in the room drop three degrees as she stared at him expectantly. "How long have you been in love with each other?"


	2. Blanc

A/N: As usual, many thanks to Alias424 for being fabulous. She truely rocks. I don't know if I'll be able to post next week with the holidays - I'll try but I am making no gauruntees. Happy Tuesday yall!

* * *

The light hurt her eyes – blindingly painful as she stared into it, wondering exactly why the room was suddenly so bright. If she closed her eyes she could see the red shadows imprinted on her vision. She opened them, staring into the light again until the white separated into yellows and blues with the faint edge of red and her eyes watered, but she couldn't stop looking.

"Cuddy."

His voice was not near, but seemed closer than it had in forever – and she turned, searching the bright pool of Crayola-tinted cream for where the sound had come from.

"Why didn't you listen?"

She spun again – her heart racing as she fought to breathe calmly and search. If she could hear him – he must be there. If she could hear him – she reached out blindly, feeling for the walls or the bed, or anything in the never-ending expanse of white – but she saw nothing but ghosts of colors that weren't there, and her hands whispered through the air silently as sobs choked her.

"It's your fault."

She sat down suddenly, staring down at herself, dressed in white and her skin seemed too pale as his voice echoed loudly through her ears. Her cries made no sound and her shoulders shook as she stared around her dazed by the light – no longer wincing from it, but staring straight into it until she looked down at her hands clutching her abdomen and saw a dark green shadow covering her there. She blinked to dispel it, but it refused to go away, and she sat still, watching in horror as the green bled into red – bright and garish against her hands as it spilled out from under her fingers and spread in an ever-widening pool around her.

It should have scared her. Her heart should have been racing but all she could do was sit, silently thankful it wasn't white.

* * *

She jerked awake, blinking down at the pale blanket beneath her and gasping as if she had just remembered to draw breath. Her hands were twisted into the fabric, and she sat up, her back protesting as she stared around numbly. The room was dark – shadows cast in every corner – and he was still in bed, looking as though he were asleep – if you ignored the tubes.

"Fuck." She grimaced in pain, rubbing a hand over her face before dragging it through her hair as she watched him. The dream hadn't scared her, per se, but she felt a strange heavy sensation in her chest as she watched the even rise and fall of his chest. It somehow seemed unfair that he got to sleep through all of this. That she was alone.

She glanced at the clock, her internal clock confirming that it really was as late as she thought it was. She sighed and stretched – and that was when she felt the twinge – low in her belly and aching, and she stared at his still form as tears filled her eyes. "Damn it."

She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into the bed with him and curl up and not move. If she didn't see – if she didn't look – it wouldn't be there, would it? It wouldn't be real until she stood up, picked up her purse and walked into the bathroom and faced reality.

She couldn't do any of that though – because she was Lisa Cuddy. And Lisa Cuddy didn't hide, or run. Not anymore. Sighing, she grasped her purse in her hands and headed to the washroom, wiping a stray tear that had escaped.

* * *

_She is crying._

_In your office._

_To you, of all people._

_You want to run, you itch to get up – leave, tell her you are not her friend and never will be, but clearly she doesn't have anyone else, and she is sobbing hysterically into her hands and looking at you with pleading eyes. _

_'Lisa, you know him better than anyone. You can __– '__ Her breath hitches and you feel the guilt crushing your chest like a lead weight. 'He'll tell you. __Wilson__ won't talk to me – only says he's happier and he thinks it's because of me. Me!' She laughs, and the sound is choking her and you at the same time._

_'Stacy I – '_

_'I know he's seeing someone else. He has to be – he's far away all the time, and he gets this look on his face….' Your guilt is almost suffocating you now, and for the first time ever, you look at her and see yourself. A strong woman broken down by love for this man, and tears fill your eyes too._

_'If you feel that way –_ _'_

_'I can't even ask him! __Because if I ask him – it makes it true, Lisa.__ And God help me, I still don't want to lose him. I still love him even though I think that. It's why you need to find out. Maybe if I knew who it was – if she knew what she was doing – ' And each desperate word is cutting you a little bit deeper until you cross the space between the chair and the couch and hug her, because if she doesn't stop talking, your guilt will bleed across the floor, thick and stagnant between you. 'Does that make me pathetic? Loving him that much?'_

_You choke back a sob as she clutches you harder, shaking in your arms. 'No,' you finally whisper, and she sags in relief against you. 'No, it doesn't.' It just make __**you**__ pathetic, for clinging to a hope that would never be realized, because how could he stay with Stacy if he didn't love her just a little bit?_

_She cries harder and doesn't notice when you join her._

* * *

When reality was confirmed and she walked out of the washroom, longing for a cup of coffee and chocolate, and maybe a good drink and just House, she found Cameron instead, with no Chase to stand in between them.

"I uh – " Cameron is standing at the foot of his bed, looking guilty and like she hasn't slept in a while. In short – a lot like what Cuddy had just faced in the mirror, without the bitter disappointment. "I came to apologise." Cameron finally rushed the words out and Cuddy stared for a moment before sinking into the chair she had just left and nodding.

"You care about him. I'm not going to deny him one more person, Cameron." Her voice was thick and felt out of practice, but Cameron seemed to take comfort in it, because she moved closer, slowly edging her way up the side of the bed.

"I know you wouldn't hurt him." Cameron's voice was filled with regret, and Cuddy nodded in response, not speaking. "I was just – he just came in and shot him. No reason – just bam. Twice. And he was _smiling_..." Cuddy felt a stinging sensation behind her eyes at the girl's words and she nodded again – not really able to speak. It hadn't occurred to her until that moment – what Chase and Cameron and Foreman had witnessed. She made a mental note to have psych talk to them all and listened to Cameron speak. "Then he just left. Just walked out like he hadn't destroyed a life, or three, or seven." Cameron's voice was bewildered and Cuddy still couldn't talk – couldn't access her voice around the image Cameron was painting across the blank canvas in her mind. She just reached out blindly with her free hand and grasped Cameron's tightly, squeezing.

"You've been nice to me. You always have, even when I've been an utter bitch to you. I'm sorry." Cameron was whispering again, and Cuddy glanced over at her with a smile.

"You were in shock – "

"I was jealous," Cameron interjected, and Cuddy closed her mouth with a snap. "I don't know what... exactly is going on with you and House. But I know that you're closer to him than I'll ever be, and I resented it. I resent it." Cameron spoke matter-of-factly, and Cuddy remained silent, allowing her to continue. "I guess – if I really loved him, I'd just want him to be happy. And safe. I need to get on with it."

"Cameron – " Cuddy didn't finish because she really couldn't. What could she say to that that wouldn't simply sound like salt being ground into a too-fresh wound?

"It's alright. I just wanted to say that. I'll be back with Chase tomorrow." She smiled sweetly at Cuddy before turning and disappearing into the darkness without a sound. Cuddy watched her go before blinking and wondering if she had imagined it. But her hand was still warm and the ache was still low in her belly, and she knew she hadn't.

She absent-mindedly slipped her still-warm hand over House's still one and leaned down until her forehead lay against the back of their hands. "Wake up. Now."

She was tired of being alone already.

* * *

_'Don't worry about it, Cuddy. It's nothing, I'm sure.' Wilson is trying to be soothing, but his current girlfriend, well on the way to becoming wife, is speaking sharply in the background and you know he isn't paying attention._

_'Three days, Wilson. I haven't seen him, have you?'_

_His sigh carries across the phone line and you can practically see him in your mind, head hung and hand on his hip as he shakes his head. 'He probably just had a case, Cuddy. You know how he gets.' You sigh in response, because you do know. You know that when House has a case he can't figure out – a puzzle he can't solve – he forgets everything else. 'Listen, I have to go. I'll let him know you're looking for him if I see him.'_

_'No!' Your voice is sharp and high as you protest quickly. 'Just – let me know, that's all.'_

_'You know you are going to have to tell him one of these days, Cuddy.' You let your own head drop as you stare at your bare feet on the tiled floor of your tiny kitchen. Almost at the end of your fellowship, you need a bigger place. __Something of your own._

_'I don't know what you are talking about, Wilson. You should go – your girlfriend sounds pissed.' You hang up before he can reply and wander into the living room. Sinking onto the sofa you sigh, because you do know what he is talking about. Wilson has this grand idea that you and House are in love. And it's ridiculous – but it's not at the same time. You worry about him. You care more than you should. Guys you date never make it past the second date because he would eviscerate them, or they were just... not him._

_You run a hand over your face as you slouch down against the cushions. You should be smarter than this – you are twenty-eight years old. You should be ready to settle down by now, but some small part of you pulls against that thought. You have goals – a career you are willing to do almost anything to have – one that doesn't really go along well with things like commitment and family. Not that that's even what you're thinking about right now. You're only twenty-eight._

_The problem is, any of the many times you try to close your eyes and picture being with House – really being with him – it involves two things. Flashes of his hands on your skin as you shiver in reaction to the __mere thought, and a definite sense of permanence. You know – you can't explain how, you simply do – that House will be in your life forever. And forever is a long time to change the playing field. _

_You sigh, and turn on the television to occupy your thoughts, anything to take your mind off of this – and him, and the heavy thoughts that always accompanied him._

_When you jerk awake later – you are unsure what time it is – or even what woke you. A moment later, there is heavy knocking on your door, and you stand up, moving over there quickly. When you try to look out the peephole, there is only black, and for a moment your heart speeds up, your mind suddenly occupied with statistics of crime._

_'Cuddy.__ Open up.' His voice startles you and you sigh, undoing the chain and deadbolt, silently cursing him for thinking it was funny to cover the peephole. He stumbles in as you open the door and you discover he was literally leaning on your door, one arm propping him up – and conveniently covering your view – and the other loosely holding a bottle of what smells like whiskey. He falls into you and you put your arms up, automatically bracing yourself for his weight._

_'House.__ What – ' The air is knocked out of you for a moment, and he pushes himself up, one hand on your shoulder as he smiles down at you._

_'Sorry __bout__ that. The door opened fast.' His words are slurred slightly and you frown up at him. You have never seen him drunk. You have seen him drink quite a bit in the last two __years,__ you have seen him tipsy – maybe even buzzed. But never like this. He leans heavily on you as you stagger under his weight, leading him to the sofa and dropping him there with a muffled thump. Once free, you return to the open door, closing and locking it tightly._

_'House – what is going on? What happened?' You are walking back to him, watching as he shrugs and takes a drink – the bottle is only about a third full, and you find some small part of you praying that it wasn't full to begin with. You sit to the left of him, curling your knees into your chest and watching him._

_'Do I need a reason to come see you? I was thinking about you... I do that. So I came here.' His eyes are rimmed with red when he looks at you, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. His head falls against the back of the sofa, and his hand reaches out unsteadily, fingers running through your hair._

_'House...'_

_'Is this what you sleep in? I remember less.' His eyes drop from yours, avoiding your gaze as he takes in your tank top and shorts._

_'I was drunk.'_

_'So am I.' His hand is tracing along your jaw line now, and you move closer to look at him seriously. Your hand is on his arm, and you take the bottle from his unresisting hands, placing it on the floor beside you. When you look back up, he is smiling at you and you place a hand on his face, feeling the scratch of three days worth of stubble there. _

_'What happened?'_

_'I couldn't figure it out. I don't know what it was – not even now. They wouldn't let me.'_

_'Let you what?' Your voice is soft and he blinks up at you owlishly._

_'Autopsy.'__ You sigh in understanding, even as he speaks. It's his thing – if he can't figure out what's wrong with a patient, he always autopsies for the answer. He says it's like losing a game of cards, and then seeing what the other person had._

_'Did you speak to the family?'_

_'They won't change their minds. She was seventy-three – they just want her at rest. Esther.' He speaks softly and you sit up straight, looking at him seriously._

_'What were her symptoms?' He looks at you in surprise, and you nod encouragingly._

_'She came in with bloody diarrhoea and ataxia. __Progressed to kidney failure, then pituitary failure.__ Then liver failure, a __splenic__infarc__, respiratory failure and death.' He is speaking in a dull tone, like he is reading this all from a file somewhere in his mind._

_'What were you thinking?' Your voice is soft, and you hand is resting on his shoulder._

_'A lot of things.__ All of them wrong.' His voice is dead and you move closer to him on the sofa, pressing yourself against his side. __A gesture of comfort – even if it is a small one.__ 'If they had let me do the damn autopsy...' he trails off, glancing around. 'Did you steal my whiskey?'_

_'Yes.' You speak in a serious tone, and he smiles oddly in response. 'Was it partial __hypopituitarism__ or __panhypopituitarism__?' You latch onto the only symptom you can deal with. __Hormones._

_'Does it matter?' His voice is soft by your ear, his breath tickling the hair there as his hand snakes out around you and presses against your lower back, pushing you closer._

_'Yes.' Your voice is breathy and you frown because it doesn't even sound like you._

_'Total pituitary failure,' he finally mutters into your hair, and you nod slowly._

_'Had to have been masses then.'__ He nods, he knows this already but he doesn't stop you from talking. 'Blocking the delivery of hormones from the hypothalamus – any other cause would have presented gradually. Loss of growth hormone, then luteinizing –'_

_'The follicle, then the thyroid – I know all this. Masses could indicate anything, though. Cancer, sclerosis – and I'll never know because I can't find out now.' His face is pressed next to your neck now, and you shiver at the amount of heat spreading from his hand to your skin. Over his shoulder the clock is glaring at you, reminding you that it is almost three in the morning and you have work the next day. You can't seem to find it in you to kick him out, though._

_'I'm sorry,' you say softly, and you are. You know – you know that this will haunt him forever. Nothing is worse than unanswered questions – not to him._

_He pulls back and looks down at you carefully. His eyes are bright blue – burning with some emotion you can't or won't name. You can smell whiskey on his breath – fiery and sweet. His eyes are locked on yours and you freeze, your heart thundering because it's only now that your mind is finally getting the danger signals here. 'I know.' His voice is softer than yours, barely a whisper but as close to a thanks as you'll ever get. In a minute it doesn't even matter anymore because his hand is wound in your hair almost painfully and his mouth is against yours, rough and sweet all at once. You knew this should never happen, but his tongue was already wrapping around yours and you could feel tiny pulses all the way in your womb and you couldn't stop him now even if you wanted to._

_Your hands wrap around his neck tightly as you decide you really don't want to anyway. He is pushing you back, his mouth fighting for control over yours, a fight you are enjoying. Your back hits the sofa and his __weight is a welcome relief on top of you, chest against aching breasts and his groin against yours, but nowhere near close__ enough. You hear moans, but you can't tell if that's you or him. Either way, your hands are fumbling along his back, eager to get under his shirt to his skin and his hand is running down the length of your body in just the way you like and how does he even know that? _

_When you break away to breathe, his mouth transfers to your ear and the sensitive skin there, and you arch beneath him, pressing your hips up and grinding yourself against him because the sensation makes your skin feel like it's on fire and freezing all at once. You can't even breathe properly anymore – it's hitching noises, raggedly gulping in air and his voice is dark against your skin. 'God, Cuddy...'_

_He says your name like it's an indulgence, long and drawn out against your throat and your hands are suddenly frantic in response as his mouth finds yours again. You swallow the words in your throat as he invades you; his skill is breathtaking in this as well. His tongue slides along your mouth, your lip, up and around and back in and you are no longer resisting, not even for fun. Your hand inches under his shirt and finally you are able to press a cool palm against his heated skin, and he gasps in your mouth, tearing his own away. He pulls back, staring down at you for a beat, his eyes so blue you can't see anything else – just the heat in them as it pools over your face and suffocates you pleasantly. _

_He lowers his head to your neck, pressing small hot, wet kisses there, and you sigh, curling around him as your hand moves up between his shoulder blades. He stills for a moment and you lie in anticipation of his next move, but there isn't one. __'House?'__ Your voice is low and dark, but his weight becomes heavier on top of you and you know before you crane your neck that he is asleep, his face buried in your skin, inhaling and exhaling softly. 'Fuck.'_

_You drop your head against the sofa, cursing inwardly and inching out from under him slowly. It takes you almost fifteen minutes but you manage it. The flush of lust is no longer there, and as you pull a blanket off a chair you want to be angry – but you can't seem to dredge it up. You are lucky really, because you wouldn't have been able to stop – and where would that have led? Either you'd sleep together and pretend it never happened, or you would sleep together and keep sleeping together until __the friction became too much and you fought one too many times and one of you decided it just wasn't worth it. __Either way, it would ruin your friendship – and__ that's something that you actually cherish._

_You press a hand against his forehead, brushing back the hair there as he snores lightly, __mouth__ open. What you need is a bigger barrier – clearly if he touches you, your wall crumbles. You need something bigger. __Something more permanent.__ 'I really am sorry,' you whisper, even though he can't hear you and has no way of knowing what is being decided without him._

_You leave your apartment long before he wakes the next day. Your first step out of the door hits the ground in an echoing way, reminiscent of the beginning of a run._

* * *

She didn't dream this time – there was no message her subconscious was trying to give her, no underlying meaning , she just slept lightly, body tense and alert for the slightest movement. When she did jerk awake in the pearly pale light of pre-dawn, she didn't know what had woken her at first – but then he shifted again, and she felt her heart burst into movement, a rapid baseline beat to her symphony of thoughts as she grabbed his chart, her hands shaking as she poured some water into a cup.

When his eyes opened, she thought she had never been so happy to see them. Never had she been so delighted to look into his eyes, and remember just how blue they were. He looked at her in confusion, and she shook her head. "Don't talk. Can you sit up a little?" He jerked his head slightly and she lifted the bed before holding the cup to his lips and watching him take a sip. When he had swallowed a few times, she set the glass down and pulled her stethoscope from her neck.

"Are we playing doctor?" His voice was sandpapery, and she grinned just at the sound of it.

"No." She listened to the sounds of his heart and lungs thoughtfully, her eyes on the monitor that was recording his O2 sats. "How's your pain? Do you remember anything?" She grabbed a penlight as she spoke, and he winced away from the bright point of light in the still semi-darkened room.

"Greg House. Doctor. Lisa Cuddy – pain in the ass. Get that thing away from me." His hands pushed weakly against her own, and she stopped for a moment, simply standing there and looking at him gratefully.

"Any pain?" She held her breath, waiting for his answer, and he blinked at her a bit.

"My neck hurts. Did you – " He paused, lifting a hand to the gauze still taped there and frowning. "There was a guy."

"House – "

"He had a gun. What happened to him?" He looked around as though he expected the gunman to be in that very room before his eyes locked on hers. "Not the same," he mumbled to himself, and she frowned. "It was Cameron last time."

"He ran. The police and security cornered him in the parking garage, and he shot himself in the head." She spoke in a soft tone, and he nodded absent-mindedly. She reached down for his hand and squeezed it gently, and he blinked up at her in confusion.

"He's dead? He shot me." His other hand moved down to his side, and she watched him carefully. "It itches. Means the stitches are healing. How long have I been out?"

"Eight days. Almost." She stepped closer when he pulled on her arm until her hips hit the side rail of the bed.

"Did I dream all of it? Swollen tongue guy – what happened to him?"

"I don't know. I passed him off to Princeton Gen. I can call and find out – "

"He's not dead?" She shook her head and watched as his gaze seemed to clear and sharpen. His hand still held hers tightly but she didn't draw attention to it and neither did he. "You and Wilson – " He paused and frowned as she waited. She had known that the dreams would be confusing – and might linger on afterward. "There was yelling. I yelled at you." He met her eyes again, and she smiled reassuringly.

"You always yell at me."

"I was angry because of the Ketamine." His other hand dropped to his thigh automatically, and he looked down in surprise. "The Ketamine. You did it?"

"You asked me to," she whispered, suddenly fearful. Afraid to hear him say if it hurt or not. Terrified that it had all been for nothing.

"I don't feel it." He was muttering, and she glanced over at him in shock.

"Is it numb? A general loss of sensation is normal – " Her hand reached across his lap and he stilled it, his fingers circling her wrist and trapping her there.

"No. I feel the leg." Her eyes met his and he smiled slightly at her, his breath tickling across her cheek as he inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I don't feel the pain." She smiled widely at him as he pulled her closer to him, resting his forehead against her shoulder. "I don't feel the pain."

* * *

_Shakespeare is an idiot. Obviously when he said it was better to have loved and lost, he never had the object of said love stare through him like he didn't even exist. You expected this – you thought you were ready but as House is screaming at you, you can't help but think nothing could have prepared you for this._

_'You took my fucking life – '_

_'I saved it.' Your voice is quiet, but you refuse – you absolutely refuse – to apologize._

_'I would have been fine – '_

_'Yes. You might have. Or alternately, you could have been in pain for the rest of your life – '_

_'And I'm not now?!' He has never yelled at you like this before. 'How could you __– you__, Cuddy, out of everyone – why __**you**__?' He's near tears now and you are wishing Stacy would hurry up and get back so you can spread some of the wrath around, but he has you alone for now._

_'Because I'm the only one who couldn't watch you kill yourself.' You are whispering and staring down at him. 'I get that you're never going to forgive me for this – but I told her it was the best option. She listened to me.' It's funny, because the sword you are falling on barely hurts going in. You wonder if you can heal around it –_

_'If you loved me at all – ' His voice is so bitter it drips along your skin like acid, burning you as you stand there and take it. 'You wouldn't have done this. Stacy didn't know – she didn't fucking know anything. But you did. You did and you were supposed to fight for me, not against me.' He isn't even yelling anymore – he sounds broken and you shiver because in a way, it's worse._

_Stacy is outside now, watching anxiously, and you hang his chart back on the bed, leaning down to look him in the eye – one last time. 'I did fight for you.' It's all you can say as he looks at you one last time before staring at the wall behind you like you never even existed in his life before this very second._

_You just weren't prepared for the pain._

* * *

"What are you doing?" She was holding two cups of coffee and glaring as she asked the question, but she wasn't quite able to keep the smile off her face as she cornered him in the hallway.

"Nine out of ten doctors say walking is good after surgery."

"You need to see the physical therapist," she scolded gently before ducking under his arm and handing him a cup of the coffee she was holding. He took it, still resting his other palm against the wall for a moment before standing straight and dropping the arm around her shoulders.

"Did this morning." He spoke smugly, and she rolled her eyes as they moved slowly down the hall. His pain was still gone. Three days in, and she made another mental mark in her mind, a line next to the other two already there. "She – and don't be jealous, she looks like she could bench-press my entire team – started me on some exercises and said I could walk some."

"She probably meant with a cane," Cuddy muttered, and he laughed slightly.

"Didn't know where it was." They finally reached a bench, and he sank down onto it, balancing his cup carefully. He opened it and took a sip before glancing up at her and patting the seat next to him. "So, did you get fired?"

"No. The board meeting went fine – nary a word about the last week. They almost seemed scared." She spoke thoughtfully before taking a sip of her own coffee.

"Scared? Maybe someone threatened them." House shrugged innocently and she narrowed her eyes at him. 'What?! I said maybe!"

"Anyway," she continued evenly, ignoring his last statement as he leaned back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him. "You can go home tomorrow. You'll have to come in for PT – but you're going to get eight weeks for recovery – "

"Sweet. Paid vacation," House cheered, and she glared at him before continuing.

"But I fully expect you back not a day over those eight weeks. No excuses – and I'm getting personal reports from your PT – " He rolled his eyes as she spoke, turning to her and opening his mouth.

"House – you're out of your room!" Wilson's tone was cheerful, almost forcefully so, as he strode up to them with a smile.

"Yeah, finally convinced her to take the chains off. I mean, at home is one thing, but in a workplace setting?" Cuddy shot House a glare, and Wilson just stared for a moment before glancing down the busy hall. An awkward silence descended, and House frowned at Wilson. "Normally my jokes go down better than that."

"Well, everything is hardly normal anymore, is it?" Wilson muttered, placing his hands on his hips as he stared at the floor thoughtfully. "It's good to see you out of bed anyway."

"Wilson – I told you not to mention that in public!" House spoke in a scandalized tone, and she rolled her eyes, easing to the edge of the bench and preparing for escape, until his hand clamped on her wrist, pinning her down. "Alright, which of you two is going to clue me in on what the hell happened? Is this like a _While You Were Sleeping_ kind of thing? Oh god, did you two make out?"

She was silent, her hand clenching around her paper cup as Wilson stammered awkwardly. "Did you just admit to watching and paying attention to a romantic comedy?" Wilson was weakly deflecting, and House stared at him, silently waiting for him to break. He wouldn't look to her – because he knew Wilson was the weaker link. "Nothing happened."

"We fought." Cuddy spoke at the same time and House looked over at her in surprise. The best lie was a plausible truth – and he wouldn't give up until he got something. "About your treatment – we fought. I kicked him out."

"For three days," Wilson said to the floor, and House frowned, eyeing them both calculatingly. Finally his fingers on her wrist loosened, and she stood fluidly.

"I have a meeting."

"I thought – " House paused and fell silent as her eyes met his pleadingly. He seemed to get the message because he simply smiled and finished his coffee. "That's fine – Wilson's way more fun to watch afternoon television with anyway. We can all play together later, right?" He braced his arm against the wall and stood heavily, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet once he gained his balance. "Hey Wilson – wanna race?"

* * *

_'Cuddy, please save me from him.__ He thinks I need a hooker.' Wilson is grimacing under the weight of the bags his is carrying as House moseys along behind him, empty-handed._

_It's Friday – which this week meant it was their bi-weekly card game – and Wilson was dropping the drinks off in her kitchen as House wandered the room, as usual. He loved the weeks it was at your place, because it gave him free range to rifle through your things. 'I can't say I disagree, Wilson.' You finally respond as he comes out of the kitchen with three beers._

_'Ha. Told you, even the resident X is saying __do__ it.' House is laughing as he pulls out his chair and sits, taking a long drink as he does so. You shake your head, heading to your kitchen and quickly throwing chips into a bowl before he can start his usual rant about the lack of food preparation. Of course, his idea of food preparation involves ordering pizza thirty minutes before you and Wilson arrive and hoping Wilson will pay. __Which he does, most weeks.__ You throw the bowl on your table and sit in between him and Wilson._

_'You're both crazy. I do not need a hooker.'_

_'No, you just need to get laid,' you snort, taking a sip and shuffling the cards you left on the table. House and Wilson stare at you for a beat until House grins._

_'Offering?' He is trying to shock you – but you have been meeting every two weeks for __almost six__ months now and he has lost the ability to do that. He has also been attempting to sleep with you for the same amount of time – but you have always held him off. He's an absolute bastard who constantly argues with you, the sexual tension was almost unbearable and your mother would hate him. In short – practically your perfect man, which was precisely why you held him at arm's length. It was much too soon for that. __Much too soon for him.__ You weren't ready – yet it was getting harder and harder each time to keep that comfort zone alive and well._

_'If you can't afford me single, he definitely can't what with the alimony.' You say dryly. He chuckles as you deal and Wilson rolls his eyes._

_'The last thing I need is another relationship,' he mutters as he takes the cards from the table._

_'Which is why we're advocating casual sex,' you respond bluntly and he chokes on his beer a bit. 'I know some nice nurses. And by nice, I mean really easy.'_

_'Wait. How come I don't know these nice nurses?' House speaks in irritation, emptying his bottle as he contemplates his cards._

_'Because, I don't help you get laid.' You speak shortly, before taking your cards in one hand – you learned the hard way that they cheat – and going to get a fresh round. House rules – whoever hosts gets the drinks. However, you have thought around that this week, and you kick the full cooler over to the table slowly. Opening it, you take out three more beer and hand them out._

_'That's cheating!' House gasps, and then curses. 'I can't believe I never thought of it.'_

_'Are we playing?' Wilson is impatient – although why you never know. He always loses and should be thankful you never play for money._

_'You know – I don't need the nurses' names anyway. If you really wanted to help me get laid though – you could...__'_

_'Shut up, House.' You lay down your cards and the game commences, distracting both of them for a while._

_'Would you rather __–__'__ House starts and you and Wilson both groan simultaneously. It's one of House's favourite ways to pass the time in between hands, and without fail, he starts in as soon as the third beer is opened._

_'It's better than the stories, Cuddy,' Wilson whispers and though you wince, you privately agree. House is a veritable front of useless information – all of which he will share with you should __Would__ You Rather prove unsuccessful. You sigh and __nod,__ and House's eyes turn toward you._

_'Would you rather be a widow or a divorcee?' _

_Wilson adopts a pained expression and you smile at him with sympathy._

_'Can't I choose secret option number three? Never get married?' you ask wistfully and House shakes his head at you, taking another drink before dealing the cards._

_'That would defeat the purpose of the game. __One or the other.__ Pick.' He deals and then pulls out a cigar which he __proceeds__ to light._

_'Widow.'__ You answer automatically, discarding your cards and taking a nervous drink._

_'Huh, really?'__ Wilson pipes up. 'You'd rather have someone you love die than just leave you?'_

_'He didn't say they left me. I could leave them, but either way widow is permanent. No loose ends.' House chuckles beside you and your roll your eyes. __'Alright__ my turn.__ Wilson, would you rather have sex with another man, or have sex with an animal?' You giggle as you ask and Wilson looks horrified._

_'Why do you always ask disturbing questions?' He splutters as House grins at him from across the table._

_'Because she's a twisted little puppy.__ God__ I love her.' House is joking, of course, but your heartbeat quickens into a one-two beat anyway._

_'Well, do I get to choose the animal?' Wilson asks dejectedly and you nod eagerly._

_'Of course.__ If you have a particular affection for say, goats over horses – then by all means...'_

_'I hate you,' he mutters, taking two more long drinks before sighing. 'I'd do the guy.'_

_'Are you serious?!' House is almost choking on his beer and you are laughing so hard you can barely open the cooler to get the next round. __'Dude, that is –__dude.'__ House is staring at Wilson with horror. __'DUDE!'_

_'It's your turn, Wilson.' You pass him a beer with a laugh and he accepts it with a glare._

_'Fine.'__ He sighs, turning back to you – an unfair choice since usually you both gang up on House 'Would you rather –__'_

_'Seriously, you'd have sex with the other guy? Cause I've seen some good looking cows...' House __interrupts,__ still hung up on Wilson's answer._

_'House.'__ Wilson is sighing in irritation now and drinking faster. 'I hate this game.'_

_'This game hates you. I cannot believe you said you'd do the guy.' He shudders dramatically, swallowing half his drink in two long pulls from the bottle. You watch his neck as he does so, eyes tracing the muscles in his throat. 'So you forfeit your right to a turn.'_

_'I never said I –__'_

_'Boy on boy action gets an automatic demerit,' House snaps and turns to you, his eyes bright. 'Your turn, Cuddles.' You roll your eyes because he knows the nickname irritates you, and you wait. 'Would you rather have sex with another woman or a horse?'_

_'You're stealing my questions now? Are you that drunk?' You speak with amusement and he rolls his eyes and sighs._

_'Clearly the gender and animal in question are different. __Totally different question, duh.'_

_'I'd do the chick,' you answer quickly, and finish off your fourth – or __is__ it fifth? – __bottle__. The cooler seems too far away to reach, though, and you giggle slightly down at your cards. Who played last?_

_'See, Wilson – unlike when you pick that answer – her answer makes me want to run out and get a hot girl and a horse and turn the hypothetical into reality.' He stares at you for a beat and then nods down to the cooler. 'We're out.'_

_' '__stoo__ far.' You are laughing and Wilson rolls his eyes before reaching down and grabbing more beer._

_'You are such a lightweight,' he mutters before placing another open bottle in front of you._

_'Am not,' you insist, taking another drink. You could drink his ass under the table any day of the week._

_'Are too.__ You're drunk,' Wilson points out and you sit up, glaring at him._

_'__Wanna__ bet? I may be drunk but I can stay drunker-__er__...' you trail off, unsure of the proper grammar before shrugging. 'Whatever – I can drink you under this table, pansy boy.'_

_'Are we putting money on it?' House is rubbing his hands together in glee and pulling bills out of his pocket._

_'Hey! You said you didn't have any cash earlier...__' Wilson is protesting weakly._

_'I lied. Alright, I've got two hundred here, can you match?'_

_Your money is slapped on the table before he can even finish speaking. __'C'mon Wilson – you in or out?'__ You are taunting him now and he sighs._

_'Depends.__ Is it just between you and me – because I'm fairly sure House could drink us all under the __table.__' You nod and he reaches for his wallet with a sigh. __'Fine.'_

_'Rules are – you have to keep pace with each other – which means strategy comes into play – first one to pass out or throw up or need to be taken into __emerg__ loses.' House sits back with a grin and Wilson takes a drink, and so do you._

_'And who are you betting on?' Wilson asks, taking another long drink – clearly intent on winning as quickly as possible._

_'Cuddy.'__ Wilson glares at him, but House merely shrugs in response. 'I've drunk with you both for a while now – she gets drunk quick. But I have never seen her pass out or get sick. I've seen you do both – sometimes simultaneously.' _

_'Are we done with the card game now?' You finish off your bottle in one long drink and Wilson mirrors your actions with a sigh._

_'We were playing cards?' House blinks before laughing._

_'What about eating? Are there rules for eating?' You are eying the chips as you speak._

_'No eating. It's only fair.' Wilson pulls out two more beers and hands one to you. 'If we're not playing cards, can we move to the couch?' You nod – all the better for him to pass out on._

_You sit on the floor by the coffee table, and House sits on the floor next to you, leaning against the sofa. Wilson pulls the cooler over before sinking into the sofa. You both drink and he glances at you. 'Why don't you date?'_

_'I date.' You take another drink and so does he, and you are suddenly aware of House's eyes on you, sharp on your skin._

_'We never meet anyone,' Wilson points out and you laugh out loud before taking another sip._

_'Because I'm not an idiot.__ Guys don't like other guys. Guys I date would not like you – you both would not like guys I date. Besides, to meet you they would have to last more than three dates.' You shrug, and Wilson drinks again and so do you. 'None of them ever do.'_

_House is pulling out three more beers and passing them out. 'Good,' he mutters and you both stare at him for a beat. 'How's Surrey going?'_

_'Inching closer to retirement every day.'__ You smirk and take a final drink, finishing off that bottle before opening the next._

_'You really think you'll get his job?' Wilson sounds sceptical, but you can forgive him that because he just doesn't know you very well._

_'Sure she will. Look at her. She went through ten years of university in eight, and she's whipping his ass already. She's Cuddy.' House shrugs as if that explains everything and you smile at him, because really – it does._

_'Yeah, I may be your boss someday if you can avoid getting fired long enough.' You smile and Wilson drinks and so do you._

_'Almost enough of a temptation for me to try to rein it in – but you'd hire me back anyway. You couldn't go without staring at my ass every day.'_

_'Yeah.__ I stare at your ass all day – sure. I could have sworn it was the other way around,' you mutter and sip thoughtfully, catching Wilson giggling out of the corner of your eye._

_'It's mutual __assmiration__.'_

_'You know what I wish?' Wilson blurts out suddenly and you both turn to look at him in surprise. 'I wish –' he laughs and takes another long swallow, pointedly waiting for you to do the same. He only continues once you've caught up. __' –__that you two would just screw and get it over with.'_

_'Why – would you be willing to watch? Participate __–__ I__ mean I have heard you're into guys –__' House's response is typical, but you are thankful for it, because at times you wish the same thing. The only problem is that it would be too perfect. Scarily perfect and when things are perfect or even close to it – you run._

_'Cuddy.'__ Wilson's voice is sharp and you startle, turning to him. 'You're two –__'_

_'Three.' House speaks over Wilson._

_'Three drinks behind.' Wilson takes another drink, and his hand is unsteady. 'Four.'_

_You sigh, pulling his bottle close to you and eying the different levels. After a moment you take a long drink, before pulling back and measuring the bottles again. They are even. You are aware that you are drunk – but it's like a blurry buzzing inside your brain. And your hands are steady – unlike Wilson's._

_'Shit.' Wilson breaths out as you finish the bottle and he blinks slowly. 'Aren't you drunk?'_

_'Oh, she's drunk.' House is suddenly sitting up beside you, too close for comfort. 'Look at her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. Pupils are slow to react – she is trashed.' His eyes are tracing your face and you flush more under the heat of his gaze. Your eyes meet his and time seems to slow down for a moment. You are unable to move even the slightest bit under the weight of his eyes and you can only look back._

_A muffled snore comes from the sofa and you both turn in surprise. Wilson has fallen __over,__ passed out – nearly empty bottle still in his hand. __'So how do we split the money?' you ask House, who has turned his face back toward you.__ 'I say 70/30. I'm the one drunk off my ass, after all.'_

_'No way.__50/50.__ I did the mental math to bet on you.' He is standing and pulling Wilson up until he is lying down fully on the sofa. You push yourself up as well, grabbing a blanket from the chair and draping it over him._

_'60/40.'__ You speak in a whisper as you stand next to him._

_'So am I sleeping with you tonight?' House is gazing down at Wilson and you turn in surprise, tripping in the process. His hands steady you, tight on your shoulders and you are suddenly reminded of a similar stance, years ago on a sidewalk._

_'You could go home.'_

_'He's my ride.' House shrugs, and he's pushing you along, half carrying you, half helping you stand. When you fall on your bed, you are convulsing with laughter and he is shaking his head. 'You really are drunk.' He's muttering, and you nod before undoing your jeans and shoving them off you. He stills by the foot of the bed, and you throw your shirt off too._

_'Close your mouth,' you mutter, sliding under the covers. 'My bikini is more indecent than this.'_

_'Hey – you want to go to the beach some time?' he automatically offers and you laugh. He lies down with you – but he is on top of the covers and still dressed. He is not nearly as drunk as you._

_'Sure.' You sigh, and roll over toward him. 'That can't be comfortable,' you point out, staring at his clothes, and he laughs._

_'Stop it. You are way too drunk.'_

_'You are way too moral.' And then you do laugh – because it's so far from true – and yet so true all at once. It makes no sense – but not much about him does. You pout, hoping he'll change his mind – because even if you would regret sleeping with him tomorrow, it is right now, not tomorrow. And right now, you'd really like the feel of his skin hot on yours. _

_'You can't seduce me. You can barely string three words together.' He is smiling in the __dark,__ and you lean closer to him, laying your head on his shoulder and listening to his heartbeat under your ear. _

_'I did stalk you,' you whisper, and his chuckle reverberates through his chest under your ear. You feel suddenly lax and comfortable – you never want to move from this spot and his arm wraps around your shoulders as he pulls you closer. You sigh deeply, smelling musk and spice, and close your eyes with a smile._

_'I know,' he whispers back, his lips brushing against your hair, you think, but all you can do is smile – a corner of your mouth barely twitching as sleep is descending on you heavy and warm. 'I'll return the favour someday.'_

* * *

She somehow wasn't surprised when she found him in her office later that evening, resting on her sofa in a pool of cream light provided by the tall lamp there. The contents of her garbage was strewn across her coffee table, and she sank down with a sigh. He didn't talk, just reached over and grasped her arm, pulling her until she was pressed next to him. He wrapped and arm around her, and she buried her face by his neck, breathing deeply.

"There's seven cups of coffee in here. You hate decaf." He finally broke the silence with an observation and she felt her throat tighten as she nodded. "It didn't take." It wasn't a question and she felt no need to respond as he turned her head so that it was laying on his shoulder. "We'll try again."

"We will. Just not right now," she pointed out calmly. "You need recovery time."

"Sorry about your trash."

"No you're not." She smiled against his shoulder and he shrugged, causing her to need to adjust her position.

"No, I'm not. You'd think you'd have learned to dump your crap elsewhere by now."

"It's how we communicate." He laughed slightly at her words and silence descended once more, comfortable and warm around them – like a down-filled atmosphere, tickling her softly. She felt the exhaustion of the last two weeks settle down on her heavily, and her eyes grew heavy in the warmth of the dark room.

"How about you spring me early? We can go home tonight." She smiled at his choice of words before nodding and sitting up, struggling because of his arm, still wrapped around her.

"We can both get some sleep."


	3. Rouge

A/N: Happy New Year guys! Many thanks as usual to alias424 for keeping me sane. Enjoy!

* * *

"Cuddy."

"No," she moaned, dragging the covers up over her head only to have them not go any farther than her shoulder. She turned her face into her pillow, grumbling and squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the bright sunlight – but all she could see was shadows of red dancing across the back of her lids. "No," she stated again – her voice bordering on a whine.

"Come on, Cuddy." House's voice was right by her ear, and she reached behind her, smacking whatever part of him she could reach. "Ow! Hey – I'm injured!"

"Obviously not injured enough," she mumbled into her pillow as his hand crept up to her shoulder, pushing until she rolled over. She kept her hands under her pillow though and it came with her. She heard him sigh gustily, and the pillow was tugged from her face as she protested. "God! It's seven-thirty in the morning, House. On a Sunday!"

"I know."

"You never wake up this early – in fact I didn't think you knew this early even _existed_." She was slowly opening her eyes – wincing against the sunlight pouring into the room and the image of his almost cheerful face above her.

"Well I haven't been sleeping this well in years, sue me. Come on – get up."

"I get one day off a week, House. _One_ day to sleep in." She was complaining even as she began to sit up, the stupid female part of her melting at the sight of him so almost cheerful. Because clearly he would never be cheerful in the traditional sense, but the fact that he was waking her was indication enough.

"You were off all last week – "

"In _your_ room. While you were in a coma! Not exactly the most restful of places – "

"I'll make you breakfast." He was bargaining now and she crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Pop Tarts don't count as 'making me breakfast'."

"Why do you have them in your cupboards then?" he asked with a smile and she just glared at him harder.

"Why am I up?"

"It's a nice day. Thought we could take a walk – I'll _buy_ you breakfast." She finally smiled, allowing herself to be happy – just for the moment. It had been a week since he'd left the hospital – he had started physical therapy and was healing nicely. But best of all was his attitude recovery. It wasn't drastic – not even close, because House without his usual bitter sarcasm wouldn't be House at all – but he wasn't miserable.

"You never pay for anything," she pointed out as she shoved the covers back and looked at him archly. "I'm getting in the shower. And there had better be coffee when I'm done."

* * *

_'What, he's sending you now?' He can barely hold himself up against the doorframe and it's easy for you to push past him into the room. __'Like I'll let you – hey!'_

_You are picking up bottles, walking into the kitchen with them, and by the time he gets in there – the liquid is already gone. 'No more drinking,' you snap, pushing back past him and pulling the books off his shelves, finding the hidden bottles before moving over to his piano bench and lifting the seat, grabbing one more._

_'You can't make me – '_

_'Yes, I can.' You throw the bottles in the sink and they shatter as you turn to him, your eyes blazing. 'I did not save your sorry ass for you to drink yourself to death.'_

_'I didn't ask you to – '_

_'You would have done the same damn thing to me, so let's stop this stupid fucking blame game. Yes, I screwed you over. Yes, you hate me. I did it to save your life – and you would have done the same. You __– '__ You walk forward, pushing him back. '– don't get to do this.'_

_'Fuck you,' he finally spits out at you, hatred making his eyes burn an intense blue._

_'You did. Look where it got you. Now sit down and shut the hell up – I'm making coffee.'_

_'What, going to go all __Florence__ Nightingale on me? I'm not going to thank you with sexual favours __– '__ You tune him out as you turn back to the sink, picking up the broken glass and carelessly tossing it into the trash._

_He finally leaves you alone, and fifteen minutes later you are placing coffee and food in front of him. 'I hate you,' he mumbles, but you ignore him as you move around the room, picking up empty pill bottles and takeout bags. Of course he hates you – it is what you have to live with. __Your sacrifice, his scar and enough pain to go around._

_'I expect you at work on Monday.' Your voice is tight as you exit the now somewhat-clean kitchen – you aren't a maid service, after all, and he is leaning against the wall by the door, his grip on his cane tight and his eyes on you are heavy._

_'I'm still on – '_

_'I don't give a shit. If you're well enough to be drunk off your ass, you're well enough to work,' you snap, and although it makes little sense, you are too angry to care. You feel like all of it was for nothing now. There would be no happy ending, not for either one of you. All that's left is anger and disappointment, and what kind of ending is that?_

_'Must be so nice, huh Cuddy?' His voice is taunting and you stare at him for a moment, pausing before the door. Your hesitation is a __weakness,__ one he preys on as his hand snakes out, gripping your arm tightly as he pulls you closer. __'So nice to walk out of here, pain-free and not giving a fuck.'__ You simply glare at him, because you can't speak around the rage that is suddenly choking you, and there's already so much anger crackling through the air, like an electrical storm waiting to burst. 'What? Are you going to tell me you're sad? __In pain, too?'_

_'No, I've never been happier.' The words drip out of your mouth before you can stop them and he is staring at you hard now._

_'Stacy's gone. Isn't that what you wanted? All I have left is you – even if I do hate you – and isn't that what you wanted too?' If your voice was painful, his was sulphuric acid – burning away any protective layers you had on. _

_'Hate me all you want, House.' You still can't say it back – never could, and he exhales in frustration because he wants you to fight back, but you can't fight anymore. _

_His hand squeezes tighter, painful on your arm, but you make no move to pull away, yanking you even closer until you are practically leaning on him against the wall. 'Fight me, __dammit__. Hate me.' You open your mouth to attack back, but his lips are already there, bruising and painful – but like water to your parched heart. You drink him in – giving back just as painfully – because it hurt. Your hands are in his hair, and his one free hand is roaming down your back until it grips your hip with a strength you didn't think he had in him._

_They say there is a thin line between love and hate, and you know it's true. Because it is so easy for love to turn into a hate so strong that it shocks your system, and so easy for that hate to heat up into something even more destructive. Your hands are on his shirt now, and you are one more weapon in his arsenal that he is trying to destroy himself with. Your heart rebels, but the angry lust coursing through you is far more powerful, and no small thing like a rendered heart is going to stop it now._

_You will destroy each other._

* * *

"So when are you going to tell me what's going on with you and Wilson?" He was meandering along the path next to her – one hand wrapped around his cane and the other enclosed around a rapidly melting cone of ice cream. She glanced over with a sigh, wishing she could somehow make him drop this subject. It wasn't the first time he'd asked, and she was getting tired of side-stepping and talking around him.

"I'm not," she finally pointed out, pulling her hand out of her pockets and letting them both swing beside her freely – her skin soaking up the scarlet warmth the sun was seeping into it.

"He's my friend. And you're my – " House stopped abruptly, and she felt a small grin creep across her face. They were nameless – always had been and always would be indescribable. No simple phase or sentence could cover the multitude of connections they shared, that spilled out between them, dancing and refracting along the sunlight.

"Your what?" she pressed him, and he glared at her before tossing what was left of his cone in the trash and attempting to wipe his hands on the tiny napkin provided.

"The point is, that you two always get along. Always. Even when I wouldn't talk to you – Wilson would be hanging around you, offering 'support' until he felt you were ripe for the plucking." His tone was sarcastic, but she stared at him open-mouthed anyway.

"He does not!"

"Of course he does – can we sit?" He motioned to a picnic table not too far away and she nodded, walking with him and sitting. The wood was hot and pressed into her already flushed skin – but it was a comforting kind of pain – almost pleasant. "He's just been lying in wait."

"That's ridiculous – I'm not his type," she pointed out in an irritated tone, and House shrugged.

"You're every man's type, Cuddy. Have you looked at yourself lately? I assume so – I mean you have to adjust the girls just right every morning – " She smacked him lightly on the arm and he glanced over at her with a chuckle.

"You know what I mean. Wilson likes those weepy, needy women. I don't do weepy. Or needy." House nodded and propped his elbows on the tabletop, resting his chin there thoughtfully as they watched ducks glide across the pond next to them. It was so normal – and so out of place for them – it was ridiculously sublime. They weren't a couple. They didn't do coupley things like take walks on warm afternoons, holding hands and enjoying being. They argued and made fun of each other and had sex and then argued some more.

"None of this addresses the original question. Why aren't you two getting along, congratulating yourselves on finally fixing me?" His tone took a turn towards bitter, and she stared over at him while his eyes continued to track those ducks across the pond.

"We didn't fix you – no one can do that, House. Twenty years and I've finally stopped trying. And Wilson – well, he thinks this was all a mistake. That the Ketamine won't work and you'll crash harder than before." He finally turned to her as she spoke, his eyes transferring their intense concentration to studying her face.

"What do _you_ think?"

"I don't," she answered simply, leaning forward against the rough wood. His hand dropped to hers and she smiled slightly. "I... I just hope, I guess. Even if – " Her voice caught as she tried to explain, and his hand wrapped around hers more securely.

"Even if," he responded, and she nodded as they fell into silence. Even if it all went wrong – and of course they thought about it, prepared for it. Experience had taught them well. Even if it all fell apart – they had the now. And the now was what helped her survive through all these years with him. She was determined that they would survive more.

* * *

_'I know you're in there, Cuddy. I can practically smell the guilt out here.' The noise startles you and you sigh as you exit the kitchen and move over to open your apartment door._

_'You know, normal people knock a few times before yelling things through doors.' Your words are automatic as your eyes scan over him, ravenous after a year. He looks tired – and there is the beginning of grey along his temples. It looks odd, and you are visibly reminded of how long you pushed him away. Not that he fought you that hard. You blink and he shoves a piece of paper in your face roughly._

_'What the hell is this?' He spits the words out and pushes past you into the apartment, and you sigh, closing the door after him._

_'A job offer.'_

_'From you?__ Congratulations by the way – I guess being a cold-hearted bitch really does get you to the top faster.'_

_ You would be lying if you didn't say it stings. But you are a phenomenal liar, so you smile coldly over at him and he seems to freeze for a moment. 'Guess it does. I have everything I could possibly want now.' You voice is so chilly you think he must have frostbite, but he laughs bitterly._

_'Really.__ How nice for you. I don't accept.' He throws the paper down on the table beside him and moves past you. You expected this, you tell yourself. It's for the best._

_'Where else are you going to get an offer like that?' Your voice is speaking without your consent and you curse inwardly, turning to see him frozen with one hand on the doorknob. 'Who else is going to take your shit – your tests without consent – your patient complaints – and how else are you going to find a job within fifty miles of here?'_

_'I can get by.' His voice is a vicious snarl and you laugh out loud. _

_'You were sued fifteen times in the last year.' You speak matter-of-factly and he turns, his eyes surprised. 'Lucky you have a girlfriend who's a lawyer or you would have been jobless months ago. No administrator in their right mind is going to take you on. Let alone offer what I am offering.'_

_'Does that mean you're not in your right mind?' he asks dryly and you can almost hear the humour – but not quite._

_'No. It means I know how good you are. I know how many lives you'll save, and how good your department can make my hospital look.'_

_'All about numbers, huh, Cuddy? You didn't always – '_

_'I am what I have to be, House,' you snap at him in irritation and he is watching you closely now – too close for comfort. 'I can control you.'_

_'As if,' he snorts and you glare at him with a frown._

_'I can do damage control,' you amend and he nods, even though you privately know that given enough leeway you can control him. He is no great mystery to you anymore – though it makes him no less fascinating._

_'I won't teach. I hate incompetent – '_

_'That's __**why**__ you teach them. And it isn't like you're getting interns for God's sake, House. They're fellows.' He is stepping closer to you now, almost reluctantly and you want to smile because you are winning and you know it._

_'I want fifteen percent more,' he demands softly, stopping only a few feet from you now and you shift uncomfortably. You try to steel yourself, because if you can't handle proximity you may as well withdraw the offer now. And you don't want to do that, for reasons unknown to you._

_'No way.__ I am offering a more than generous salary and you can't find work anywhere else.' _

_He steps forward again, his eyes lighting for the first time since he arrived. He stands taller, and seems less tired now. 'I want the offices next to Wilson then.'_

_'They're not available – '_

_'Make them available.' He is moving so close now you can feel his body heat and smell him – soap and leather, and it's making your insides buzz slightly in reaction._

_'You'd never get any work done – '_

_'I want those offices,' he states simply, towering in front of you now and you have to look too far up because you are in your bare feet._

_'Why?'_

_'Next to Wilson.__ Far away from you – '_

_'It's my hospital, nowhere is far enough away, House,' you warn, and he smiles slightly as he stares into your eyes and you can't seem to take another breath._

_'Balcony is the perfect level to throw things at people in the parking lot – '_

_'There isn't a balcony, House.' You speak dryly and he looks down at you, stooping a little to meet your eyes._

_'Yet.__ I want one. Goes from my office to Wilson's – '_

_'What, you're negotiating for him now too?'_

_'Why not?__ He is my __**friend**__.' His voice is bitter and you sigh as you can feel guilt pushing at your insides._

_'Fine, balcony.__ But you have to take on three fellows instead of two – every three years.' He smiles in triumph and you glare up at him, crossing your arms._

_'Like any of them will stay that long.' He chuckles and you keep glaring, feeling your whole body tremble slightly as he brushes against you. His eyes darken as he notices and you fight to keep the glare in place. _

_'Bound to be someone who can stand you for more than a year, House.' _

_His eyes flash dangerously at that and he sneers down at you. 'Is that some kind of jab, because it's been almost two years actually __–__ '_

_'Congratulations.' Your voice is insincere and he is glaring at you know. 'Except that I hear even she's reaching the breaking point now.'_

_'She isn't you,' he bites out callously. 'Just because we're in a rough patch doesn't mean she's __gonna__ run for the hills.' His voice is low and you feel anger simmering under your skin, boiling just below the surface._

_'I didn't run – '_

_'Liar,' he taunts you and you let out a harsh breath, wishing the frustration would leave with it._

_'Are we done?' Your voice is oddly quiet and final and he glares down at you, inches from you now, and your heart is pounding._

_'Yeah.__ We're done.' He spits out, turning on his heel and heading for the door once again. You almost sag in relief, your back hitting the wall behind you for support. Suddenly though, he turns, and is right in front of you again, his eyes intense and so damn bright they're all you can see. It brings up a memory – one tucked away and faded from use – of him above you on the sofa that's two feet away, his eyes hot and his mouth hotter as it meets your own in a delicious power struggle. He is staring at you and your skin is flushing, a gentle pink spreading up your chest and neck and his eyes drop down to it. You nipples tighten in response and in the blink of an eye his hands are in your hair and his mouth is on yours. It's angry – harsh and punishing, but your body doesn't seem to care as you hands press against his back and you return the kiss for all you're worth._

_You are weak – you know this as his hands slip under your shirt and his heated touch strokes against the cool skin there. You gasp when his thumb brushes across your breast and he smiles against your throat at your reaction. Your mind struggles to come up with reasons this is a bad idea. He has a girlfriend – but you don't care. Your hands are in his hair again and you tug his head back up to yours and meet his mouth again, more roughly and you moan because you love it. He's your employee. Not yet, though – and you are pulling his shirt off as you both stumble down the hall. You can't seem to get enough of the taste of him, and in the heat of the moment, it's perfect. He finally gets your shirt off, and when your skin __finally – finally – presses against his, you can feel your hearts beating in tandem. He's angry at you – your mind finally comes up with the weakest excuse of all, one that you shed with your pants as ridiculous. He doesn't hate you – any more than you hate him._

_ You know you'll feel guilty tomorrow – but all you can do right now is __feel__. His hands on your thighs, his face by your hip as you gasp under him. The __heat of his gaze as you finally wrap__ your legs around him, and how full your heart feels afterward. It's an incredible high – higher than you've ever been before and you love it and hate it all at once. It will never be the same again, and you know this as you cry out, your voice hoarse and __your__ breathing ragged. He moans into your neck deeply, and it's over before it began – rushed and heated, the both of you outrunning the guilt. He collapses on top of you and you try to remember how to breathe properly, but you can't seem to do it, other than in hitching gasps that echo in the silence._

_His face is buried in your neck and his breathing is rapid. 'She's not you,' he repeats, but this time it's an apology, an irrevocable truth and you know._

_This wouldn't be the last time._

* * *

"How is he?"

It should be a simple question – an inquiry, gently put and patiently awaited, but instead it sounds like an accusation, and she bristled at the very tone of it. "Call him," she responded shortly, snapping the file shut and moving away from the desk. Wilson heaved a sigh behind her and followed doggedly.

"He hasn't called me," he pointed out – and again the accusation is there – faint and for experienced ears only, but she is more experienced than she wants to be.

"Yeah, funny thing after getting shot. There's all kinds of physical therapy and doctor's appointments that he's actually keeping to, amazingly enough – "

"That doesn't mean he can't call," Wilson pointed out, and she sighed, finally sliding to a halt and spinning to face him.

"I'm not his mother, Wilson. Or his secretary. If you want to talk to him, call him."

"And where exactly would I do that. He doesn't seem to be home lately – should I call your place?" His words were calm, almost reasonable. Except for the fact that they were in the middle of a busy hallway teeming with nurses, and he wasn't lowering his voice at all. She levelled a glare on him that would have made a lesser man pass out.

"He does have a cell phone – "

"That he doesn't answer."

"You know what?!" She threw her hands up with an exasperated sigh. "He has a PT appointment today at three. Corner him there. Do your whole Spanish Inquisition thing on him – I'm a bit sick of it." She moved again, stalking into her office, throwing open the door with more force than was strictly necessary. It was used to it anyway. Hell – it probably missed it now that House was gone.

"If you'd _answer _the questions it wouldn't be an inquisition." Wilson had, of course, followed her. She dropped the file on her desk and turned with a sigh, leaning against her desk and crossing her arms.

"He's good. His PT is going well – his pain hasn't returned. He still needs the cane, of course – he won't be running marathons anytime soon but he seems happy."

"And when it all goes away? You couldn't stick around to pick up the pieces once, Lisa – you think you can do it now?" Her anger washed over her at his words – a faint red tinge coloring her vision like day-old blood stained across her retinas. He simply stared at her, and she fought to bite down on the words choking her slowly. He was House's friend. His best friend. Once upon a time – he had been hers as well. So she somehow managed – just – to remain silent as he stared at her a beat too long before sighing and sliding his hands from his hips as he turned to leave.

Once her office was empty again, she unwrapped her arms and slid her hands across her face, breathing deeply until the crimson subsided from her mind. He was her friend. Once upon a time.

* * *

_The day you found out about Stacy is burned in your mind forever, like a pivotal point in your life. The point when you realize that you aren't always right – and sometimes you can take too long to act. Wilson – poor sweet Wilson who is both your best friends – lets it slip accidentally, three weeks after your thirtieth birthday. You celebrated together – getting drunk but not as drunk as you would have before Esther – and after that, work and schedules seemed to conflict enough that all you saw of House and Wilson were snatched coffees in the cafeteria. So when Wilson shows up one day for lunch – an excuse to discuss his already failing marriage – you accept happily, because you haven't seen him – not really – in a while._

_He is talking about his wife, and trying not to be bitter, and you are trying to be supportive without pointing out the fact that if he stopped sleeping with other women, maybe he'd stay married longer. 'It's so funny that I'm the one getting divorced and House of all people is committing. He's never even committed to a membership at a video store but now he's living with Stacy. __God.'__ Wilson takes a bite of his salad, oblivious to the whiteness of your face and the shock running through your system as you stare at him. 'What do you think of her, anyway? She's not exactly what I pictured as his type. Truth be told I kind of always hoped you __– '__ He looks up then and trails off as guilt washes over his face. __'Oh God.__ You knew, right? Tell me you knew, Lisa!' _

_Wilson is the only person who calls you Lisa – and only when he is feeling extremely guilty. Like when he called you two weeks ago, telling you he was about to do something bad. You knew it was already too __late. He is going through a rough time – again – but you don't see any need to make him feel worse, so you swallow your shock and smile tightly. You lie. __Badly.__ 'Of course I knew. But I haven't – met her yet.'_

_'Oh good.__ For a second there….' Wilson laughs awkwardly and then takes another bite. 'That would have been really bad. But of course you know. House talks to you more than me.' You smile brightly and don't respond. Of course he talks to you. __About cases, about Wilson, about the current Dean riding his ass, about sports, or TV or Wilson's wife.__ He talks to you about everything that doesn't matter. He hasn't talked to you about something that matters since Esther – and that was almost a year and a half ago. Wilson looks relieved and you feel guilty as he continues to speak about his issues, but you can't really hear him over the white hot pain that is lodged in your chest. You nod and murmur when appropriate, as you push your food around and swallow the bile and rage that is choking you slowly._

* * *

"Are you afraid?"

It was dark, and he couldn't have been able to see her, not clearly – so it somehow made it alright to ask him – breathe out the question in a fearful way. She didn't elaborate – or specify. She just asked and held her breath as she lay behind him, no light in the room except the faded persimmon glow from the streetlights outside.

"Afraid of what?" he finally responded, his voice gravelly and tired. She felt a tug of guilt but ignored it, because she needed control. She needed a definition for everything in her life and he was no different.

"Anything." Her voice was barely a whisper, and he rolled onto his back so he could look at her face.

"It'd be stupid not to be afraid. It's a survival instinct," he pointed out in a practical way as he peered at her in the dark. "If you meant about the treatment – then yeah." His hand gripped his thigh as he spoke, the move instinctual and automatic. "Be stupid not to be."

"Never mind," she mumbled, pressing her face by his shoulder, and his hand came up to comb through her hair. "We should be enjoying it."

"It screwed up a lot, Cuddy. My getting shot – altered perspective."

"Like what?" She looked up, genuinely curious, and he shrugged slightly, jostling her head with the movement.

"This. I was helping you – for a baby, but we can't exactly try that and you're still here." He pointed this out simply, almost casually, and she held her breath for a moment before exhaling in a rush. They didn't discuss it – generally they were bad with the communication thing. It had destroyed them once before, and yet still they continually repeated their mistakes. She thought that it was unavoidable. Clearly he thought differently.

"I'm here because – " She paused then, because what could she say to that? She wasn't in his bed at three in the morning because of her desire for a child. They weren't able to try right now anyway. She was here because she wanted to be. She needed the comfort of his heart under her ear and his warmth seeping into her own skin until she felt like a fireplace ember – lit and glowing, ready to spark.

After she had been silent just a bit too long, his chuckle rasped out and she glared at him. "Same reason I'm here then." He was laughing and she smiled softly for a moment. They weren't typical – no one involved with House ever could be.

"Because I want to be. I need to be." When she spoke softly she startled him into silence – he clearly hadn't expected an actual answer. "It – terrifies me though, and it's taking everything in me not to run," she finished and she finally looked up to see him watching her intently, his face covered by shadows.

"I can't run." His words were soft, and laced with double and triple meanings. "I don't want to." He sounded surprised by his own admission, and she stretched up, pressing her lips against his softly. His hand tangled in her hair more deeply, and he pulled her against his side, his tongue coaxing her mouth open as his hand slid down to her ass.

When she finally pulled back, their breathing was uneven, and she felt a strange tenderness in her chest. It almost hurt – like it was rubbed red and sore – but it felt so intense at the same time that she didn't want to move, lest she dislodge the feeling and burst the bubble they were in. She had been here before – recognized that tree at the side of the road – and knew she was hopelessly lost. Again. She had loved him before – and thought she couldn't possibly love him more. She had thought wrong.

"Thank you." She didn't specify what for, and he nodded as she tucked her head down on his shoulder again, burrowing there and listening to the air escaping his lungs. She loved him, and it scared the hell out of her. She had barely survived losing him last time. She was practically sure she wouldn't survive if it happened again.

But sometimes you had to let yourself get lost in order to find what you were searching for. After all, if you knew where it was to begin with – why would you have searched?

* * *

_You never discuss Esther, and not just because it could end in twelve different kinds of bad. He never asks why you avoided him for four weeks, missing two poker nights. He doesn't really have to because when you do see him again, the first words out of your mouth are about Matt and his eyes darken in understanding. Wilson is happy for you – he thinks it's about time you got serious and you want to laugh at the irony of it all, but you have no one to share it with._

_Wilson gets engaged again, and you find yourself at another bar, drinking too much again and watching him. Some things are different though – Matt's hand at your waist – skin too clammy for your liking and you want to step away but that wouldn't look good. You almost feel bad. Matt is a nice guy. __Funny, good-looking, very charming.__ But his teeth are too white and his eyes are brown. Neither of these __make__ him good enough. You feel a little sick every time he touches you, but he is a necessary tool and you use him. It makes you die a little bit inside, but you reason that you need to be willing to do the unthinkable – it's how you get ahead._

_'Any day now we'll be celebrating Cuddy's promotion!' Wilson is cheerful, and drunk, and oblivious to the dark looks exchanged between his two friends. You smile and nod while Matt's hand tightens on your skin._

_'I'm very proud of Lisa.' He smiles and you swallow a sudden influx of bile because you hate when he calls you Lisa – but you never let him call you Cuddy – and how can he be proud of you if he didn't even know what you went through to get here? House's lip curls up derisively across the table as he stares at Matt hard._

_'We're all very proud of Lisa, Mike.' He is sneering but only she and Wilson know him well enough to notice and Wilson is simply too drunk, staring at the newest fiancé with a __sotted__ expression. There are other people at the party – mostly her family, and a few of Wilson's, along with a large majority of co-workers._

_'Matt.' Matt speaks with a smile and House rolls his eyes._

_'Whatever.' Your hand grips your drink tightly and your stomach rebels against you, lurching and suddenly you want to be anywhere but right here, in this seat with this noise and this man next to you while House's eyes are lingering on you far too much. You blink slowly, breathing in and out, but nothing helps._

_'I'll be… right back,' you mumble vaguely as you push away from the table almost violently and stumble in the direction of the bathroom. As you stand under the cheap lighting, the irony is not lost on you that you are right back where you started – nine years later and still staring at the same reflection, still obsessed with the same man that you will never have. 'Get a grip,' you whisper fiercely and glare at yourself, but it doesn't have the same impact. At least the bathroom is empty this time._

_You run the water – cold as it can go – and run your hands under it before pressing them against your face. Your makeup will be ruined but at this point you couldn't care less. You need something. __Anything to make this feeling go away.__ Your fingers are almost digging into your eyes and you hear the door open behind you but don't look up. When you hear the lock click, you do, your eyes darting up to the mirror in shock. He is leaning against the door, and your stomach sinks as your heart rises. Part of you expected it. __Wanted it._

_'He is a moron.' His voice is casual and you sigh, tension seeping out of you so rapidly that the only thing keeping you up is your hands on the sink and his eyes in the mirror. He walks until he is so close behind you, you can feel the heat from his body. 'Why are you doing this, Cuddy?' _

_You close your eyes against the image of him, standing behind you like he fit there, and the sound of his voice saying your name in just that way. You haven't discussed it because you hoped he knew without asking. He did know without asking, but apparently his curiosity wasn't satisfied and he needed to hear it. 'Doing what?' You let go of the sink and his eyes are accusatory as they meet yours._

_'Don't pretend to be stupid. Please.' His voice is a whisper, but so bitter you flinch. His hand grabs your elbow and turns you around so you are facing him and his presence is so much more real now – looming above you and watching you intently._

_'I have to,' you finally whisper, and he smiles and steps forward until you step to the left and back, your bare back hitting the cold tile._

_'Mark is a distraction– '_

_'Matt – '_

_'Whatever.' He is stepping closer now and you sigh, knowing what's coming next – and you want it to happen so badly, but at the same time you know it can't. His hand comes up and his fingers trace along your shoulder lightly. You shudder and try not to think about the difference between one touch from the right man and a thousand from the wrong._

_'This is a bad idea.' You speak softly, your eyes begging him to understand but his eyes are watching his hand trail along your clavicle and up your throat._

_'This?' His voice is a hoarse whisper and his eyes darken as they meet yours. He inches forward – almost an impossible feat given the lack of space already in between you – and his mouth descends to hover over yours. __'Or this?'__ You don't have time to answer because he is kissing you and it is every bit as erotic as you remember. You were sort of hoping the memory was faulty – but his hands are sliding down your back and your mouth is opening under his. You feel like a person wandering the desert – parched and stumbling upon an oasis. You are greedily drinking him in – __he__ tastes of yeast this time, and salt and it is the best thing you have ever tasted in your life._

_Your hands reach up between you – you have to push him away, or logically this will go places it shouldn't. Your neurons can't be firing right though, because instead of pushing your hands are running up his chest and wrapping around his neck desperately. He pulls away with a chuckle and he looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes._

_'You can't replace this, Cuddy. You're stupid to try – ' He's talking too much though, and you press yourself against him, your hands moving down his body rapidly until you are gripping his ass in one hand and pulling him toward you with the other._

_'Shut up, House.' He kisses you almost savagely, his lips bruising over yours. You don't mind because you pull him closer against you – a physical impossibility – and bruise him right back. Your nails dig into skin and he hisses in your mouth but doesn't stop you or your hands, which are now tearing his shirt out of his pants, eager for his flesh. His mouth moves down your throat and your head falls back. He doesn't stop this time, however, and his tongue darts out, tracing the cords in your neck until he reaches your shoulder. His hands are working the button of your halter top dress and cool air hits your heated skin for only a second before his head moves lower, and his mouth heats you up again._

_'You need me.' His voice is a murmur against your skin, and you shiver, your hands gripping his hair as his lift you up until you are on the edge of what you can only assume is the sink. This brings about a whole new set of physics and your legs wrap around him, pulling his hips into your groin as he presses against you, delicious friction and pressure combined. 'You want me.'_

_'I….' You are gasping for air as his lips graze your nipples and you forget what the hell you were going to say anyway._

_'You what?'__ He is lifting his head and watching you and his gaze is like liquid metal, scorching you._

_'I want you.' Your voice is low and defeated, and he frowns for a moment before pulling you to him gently, and kissing you softly and slowly. It is addictive and tender, and your heart constricts because it is so beautiful it almost hurts. It shouldn't be beautiful. Not in this eerie yellow lighting, with your ass on a sink and __graffitied__ tile at your back. _

_'Max is a mistake – '_

_'Matt.' __And__ you pull back, your breathing uneven, feeling the shock of his name like cold water. This time your hands do push and House looks at you in confusion as you scramble off the sink, to the other side of the room. Your hands yank up your top and button it quickly, and they are shaking as you turn the lock and attempt to open the door. _

_His hand stops you, palm against the scarred wood as he stands behind you. 'Lisa – '_

_'Don't call me that!' you snap, and it sounds more like a sob than a reprimand. Your face is burning and you cannot believe what almost happened. What you almost did._

_'Cuddy...' he sighs, and his other hand is gentle on your back, stroking it soothingly as you bow your head and fight not to cry. Crying is useless – nothing changes. 'Why won't you let us __–__ '_

_'Let us what, House?' You can't relieve the anger through tears, but this is something you can handle. 'Are we going to fuck for one night and then move on?' You are speaking over your shoulder and your voice is like shards of glass, sharp and broken all at once. 'I have a career – a plan, __dammit__, and there's no room for you or Matt or anyone in it.'_

_'Cuddy, there's no reason – '_

_'Besides which, how long, House?__ Do you think we're going to fall in love and get married and have a kid and a nanny – because neither of us would be there now – and live happily ever after?' He is silent behind you and his hands stills at the vitriol of your words. You finally turn around, all glittering eyes and flushed skin. He is looking down, unable to meet your eyes and you know that you are right._

_'I don't know,' he finally answers, looking up. 'But I'm not scared shitless to find out either – '_

_You turn again, unable to take in his gaze as you jerk the door open, twisting the knob viciously before wrenching it toward you until his has no choice but to let go. You run. __Past the table – past Matt, with __him trailing after you.__ You run all the way into a cab, not caring about what Wilson will think – because he won't remember it tomorrow anyway – not caring about Matt – because after that scene if he didn't know what was happening in that bathroom, he was stupid – and not caring about House. Because all you needed was escape._


	4. L'Orange

_You don't see him for weeks, and he can't look at you straight on anymore when you do see him. __Wilson__ still talks to you – he is your go-between when you finally get promoted. The accomplishment should feel like something – you achieved it in record time – but when __Wilson__ invites you out to celebrate, you know he means with him and his wife, and not him and House. You politely refuse, citing paperwork as your weak excuse._

_You have been there, in your new office for almost two months when he appears in your doorway with his hands in his pockets. You want to break the silence – you feel guilty for it because it was you who started it by running, but he glances at you and shakes his head._

_'Seems to me – ' His voice is gruff when he starts speaking, and although he still can't look you in the eye, he can look in your general direction and that's an improvement, right? __' –__ It's pretty stupid if you turned me down to save our friendship and it ends up screwing our friendship. I'm not really a fan of irony, so Wilson and I are having poker night at my place tonight. You should come.' He doesn't wait for a response, just slides his eyes off of your left cheek and exits just as suddenly as he came, but you are smiling widely as relief rushes over you._

_You can privately admit to the fear that has been eating at you – even if you will never ever speak about it to him._

* * *

She couldn't breathe properly – the air was filled with heavy steam and she knew she should have opened her window before getting in the shower. The water was hot and inviting though, and she had just finished her morning run. Her hand reached for the water taps to turn them off, when the door opening made her pause.

House shuffled in slowly – clearly having just woken up. His hair, from what she could see, stuck out in all directions, and he stood in the doorway, leaning casually as he stared at her through the frosted glass of her shower door. "Open the window, please?" Her voice was low, and he grumbled but did as she asked. The cooler air rushed into the room and was a blessed relief as she leaned against the cool tiled wall of the shower.

The door slid open, and she heard him hiss and then felt the dry warmth of his skin against hers. "Jesus, are you trying to cook yourself?" His voice was a mumble as he pushed closer against her and she let him.

"Yes. Good morning," she added the last almost as an after-thought and his laughter vibrated through his chest until it reached her ears. Her arms tightened against him as she was hit by a sudden wave of longing. She missed this – missed touching him and being touched. It had been four weeks since the shooting now – and he was almost as good as new – maybe better. But he still had two weeks before he would be allowed back to work – if he didn't cage his way out of it – and though the PT had given him a healthy amount of energy again, and being pain and narcotic free had lifted years from his face alone – he wasn't physically up to anything remotely close to what she was craving.

He pressed his mouth against her shoulder, and as her thoughts wandered so did his lips. Across her clavicle, trailing up over her neck until his tongue connected with a spot just below and behind her ear that made her knees give way slightly, and she slid down the wall only to be held in place by his arms. "House..." Her voice was jagged and there was enough of a moan in there that he transferred his attentions to her ear and she gasped. "You're mean." She finally pouted as well as she could with his tongue circling her ear and he pulled back with a calculating gleam in his eye. "No," she said firmly, before he even opened his mouth.

"You don't even know what I was going to say," he pointed out huffily, and she rolled her eyes as his hands slid down her water- and sweat-slicked back until they rested at her hips, just inches above her ass.

"You had your face on."

"What face?" He was attempting to look innocent now as his hand moved down that last few inches and reached its destination.

"The 'I'm about to lie, cheat and/or extort Cuddy into getting what I want' face." His hand squeezed tightly and she rose up on her tiptoes in surprise, brushing against him as she did so and sighing. "We can't do this. You have two more weeks before you're fully healed–"

"I feel fine," he pointed out as he pulled her off the wall so that her weight was braced against him. "You feel fine."

"You'll feel fine until you pull your stitches. Stop." She just – barely – managed to push away from him, escaping his hands as she pulled open the shower door and stepped out into the cooler air. She wrapped a towel around herself as she shivered. She heard him mutter intelligibly as she towel-dried her hair and reached for her hair dryer.

He was stepping out when she turned it off and he stood behind her, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "Two weeks isn't that long." He spoke simply, and she shook her head in agreement. "You should start treatments again."

She took a breath, not answering him for a moment. It was what it was all about. What _they_ were all about – or what she liked to pretend they were all about. The last month everything had felt disturbingly real – he had been with her almost every day – and bringing the fertility meds back into it, took away the faint glow. The room seemed to go bluer – the amber warmth seeping out of her vision until cooler hues were all that were left. "Are you – "

"Haven't we done this before?" He was smiling faintly and she nodded mutely.

"I'll call Robin."

* * *

She wanted to disappear into the hall behind her, walk backward as quickly as possible and escape before anyone saw her. And by anyone, she of course meant House – the one person who seemed to have radar built in specifically for her and her alone. He was waving her over before her imaginary footsteps scurried off for freedom. So she smiled, sort of, and joined him and Wilson at their lunch table.

"Not enough food at ho– your place for you?" She meant it to flow out – arch, confident. Instead she was tripping over her own words as her throat constricted around them until they burned, raw and bittersweet.

"I never turn down a free lunch, Cuddy. You know that." House was grabbing one of Wilson's fries and kicking the chair next to him, and across from Wilson. She sat awkwardly, her back tense and her seat uncomfortable. "It's why you never ask me to lunch," he pointed out around a mouthful of fries, and she rolled her eyes, relaxing slightly.

"So House, how are you doing at home? I always call your place to check on you and you never answer." Wilson's voice was the strangest mixture of huffiness, sarcasm and innuendo.

"Because I know it's you, calling to check up on me." House sounded completely bored as he ate another fry.

"Yeah. That's likely," Wilson scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched House pick up his plate of fries and transfer it to his tray. "You don't seem to avoid Cuddy's calls." He was pointed as he looked from her back to House.

"Well yeah, have you ever _heard_ her phone sex skills? It's how she paid for college– "

"Oh for God's sake, would the two of you stop it!" She finally let the words burst past her throat and spill out in a hiss. Both men looked at her with varying degrees of a frown in place. She saw the anger in Wilson's eyes before she glanced away from him and into House's. An odd sense of calm came over her as her eyes focused on the garish orange lettering on his faded tee shirt. "He knows. Wilson's known since the coma – the Ketamine, the fertility treatments... all of it. He didn't want me to – "

"Shut up, Cuddy!" Wilson's words garbled out at her, like music filtering through white noise on a crappy radio station. She closed her mouth abruptly and stared at him for a moment in shock. "I'm sorry." He apologized instantly – he always did. She felt the blood rush back into her face and nodded slowly.

"He didn't want you to what?" House's voice cut through the sound of her blood rushing through her skin, staining it vermillion.

"Tell you he knew." She dragged the words out of her chest somewhere, ignoring their flat delivery. "He wanted to see when you would tell him," she finished with a shrug, and House watched her for a moment before nodding while slowly chewing a fry thoughtfully.

"I would have told you, but she owns my soul." House shrugged as if this were the norm, and picked up the last fry.

Wilson sighed in disgust, apparently deciding to go with it and giving House a look of mocking reproach. "What'd you get for it?"

"The best blow job I'd ever – "

She slammed her hands down against the table and tuned the two men's voices out. Because of course he and Wilson would be fine five seconds later. Never mind that House stayed irritated with her for huge gaping periods of their history, never mind that he held every grudge against her like it was offspring – their laughter flowed around her and she felt her frustration grow.

There were some things she could never be, never be allowed –

But thoughts like those just reminded her of exactly how unforgiving their past had been. It was easy to repeat mistakes, even despite efforts to the contrary. Sighing, she pressed her palms flat on the table as she stood, unnoticed by either man while they argued over a TV show.

She just turned and walked away from the table, shaking her head as her hips swayed in sync.

Nobody walked after her.

* * *

_Your anger fuels you for almost five months. It forces you to get through your day, forces you to crawl out of bed in the morning and back into it alone at night. It eats away at you at odd points during the day, but it's almost comforting now. It helps you live through meetings with legal – it helps you stare at him and refuse the latest test he wants – refuse him and mean it. He can tell the difference, you are sure, but you are beyond caring anymore. You are beyond anger, beyond emotion, beyond feeling anything for him anymore. It's a mantra you repeat to __yourself__ daily and forget every single night._

_'You can't keep doing this, Cuddy.' Wilson's sigh is close to your ear and you stare ahead, not meeting his eyes. Wilson thought he knew what was wrong – he was partly right, but there were things he didn't know – things he would never know._

_'Doing what Wilson?' You repeat in a monotone, and he sighs before placing his tray next to yours on the table and sitting beside you._

_'Pretending they don't exist. I know you're hurting – '_

_'I really don't think you do.' Your voice breaks slightly and you want to curse, but instead you bite your lip hard and keep repeating your mantra. __Beyond emotion.__ House and Stacy are at a table three down and one over from yours. You sat with your back to them on purpose, because leaving would be admitting defeat – but you weren't interested in watching them either._

_'Lisa, why didn't you just tell him when you had the chance?'__ He asks the one question you've been asking yourself in the dark for almost three years now. The answer is simple – you were stupid. __Too stupid to see the chance in front of you.__ Wilson clearly feels terrible about this – he is calling you Lisa again, has been doing it more and more recently. You can feel House's glare even if you can't see it, and you are sure it is directed at Wilson as much as you._

_'There's no answer that will make any kind of sense, Wilson. Just... let it go.' Your voice is a whisper, and he leans closer to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. You lean into it, because you can't help yourself, and his hand squeezes gently._

_'I'm not the one holding on,' he responds, and you finally tear your eyes off the wall in front of you and turn to him. The concern in his eyes is almost your undoing, but you manage to steel yourself and close your eyes._

_'How am I supposed to...? It's there. __Every day.'__ Maybe you need a vacation – or a whole new job, but you have sacrificed everything for this damn hospital and you cannot give it up. It's the only thing left returning your embrace. 'I'll be fine.' Your words are weak and he doesn't believe you, but you smile and press on anyway. 'Go. You know he'll be pissed you're here.' _

_He pulls back reluctantly and pushes away from the table, standing awkwardly as his sympathetic eyes remain locked on you. You can feel the pity and you hate it. You just shake your head and move your eyes back to the spot you had been staring at before he arrived._

_You finish your lunch alone before standing and quickly exiting the cafeteria. You'll pack a lunch tomorrow, you decide._

* * *

She was never prepared for the sting, she thought as she hissed, her hands gripping the fabric of her couch. The sting left as quickly as it came, though, and her hands relaxed a few seconds later as he handed her a cotton ball with a smile.

"Have I ever told you how much I like your ass?" She smiled at his question as she circled past him and padded down the hall to her room. His steps followed hers, slow and faltering – but unaided by a cane. It was something he'd been doing over the last few days. He used the cane when he went out, but at home he would walk without it.

"Oh, only about three times a day for the last twenty years or so. Give or take a few." She shrugged as he arrived at the doorway, leaning against the frame there.

"Well, it is awe-inspiring in its size alone." He blinked innocently before moving into the room and sitting on the edge of the unmade bed as she stood in front of her closet.

"Only going to inspire more awe soon," she pointed out as she pulled off her skirt and blouse.

"True. If the sex weren't so fantastic, I'd pull out on principle."

She laughed and glanced over her shoulder at him with a smile. She walked over by the bed and didn't protest when his palms slid across her hips, pulling her closer. "You can still remember?"

"Absolutely." She was unprepared for his sharp tug down to the bed and his hands moving over her body like a crescendo.

"House…."

He grinned down at her for a moment before he pressed his face into her shoulder and breathed her in. "Doctor cleared me today. It's why I was at the hospital." She froze at his words, suddenly afraid to move as his lips dragged along her throat and someone moaned.

"I'm your doctor," she pointed out in a breathy voice as his mouth moved under her jaw and behind her ear.

"PT cleared me. You, of course, can feel free to do your own thorough examination." She smiled as his lips met hers, and she relaxed into it for the first time in weeks. She pushed her hands through his hair, pushing him down next to her and moving him below her as she did so. Her mouth didn't leave his as she straddled him and moved against him with a groan.

She broke away as she sat up, catching her breath before moving lower down his body with a smile. "It's what a safe doctor would do."

* * *

_'Are you out of your mind?' He is waiting for you in your office, and you are almost disappointed that he chose here to confront you, but don't allow it to show as you sail through the door. You ignore his question for the most part as you set your briefcase on your desk, unbuttoning your suit coat and hanging it on the coat tree by the door. He is standing behind you, and you turn with a confused smile._

_'Depends on who you ask.'__ You speak lightly and he snorts, his eyes dropping to the neckline of your shirt for a moment, but you notice and your smile widens. _

_'Why on earth would you hire Stacy?' _

_'Because there was an opening in legal and she was the best applicant,' you answer calmly, moving over to your desk and leaning across it to open your case, pulling out files before lifting the case off the desk and resting it on the floor._

_'You hate her,' he points out in a grating tone, and you turn around in surprise._

_'No, I don't.' Your voice is a mixture of offended and bewildered and it throws him off as he frowns at you. You keep your face somewhat shocked and his eyes narrow at you. 'Why would I hate her?' It's almost laughable – because of course you hate her, could count the ways. However, House had no concrete proof of that. In fact – the only reason he would think you hate her is if he thought you wanted __him. Which you do – but that wasn't the point. The point was that he'd been putting some sort of thought into it, which was good._

_'Of course you hate her. You met her once and almost ran out of there at breakneck speed and then didn't speak to me for a year.' You listen to him, leaning against your desk as you do so and your hand tucks your hair behind your ear. His eyes follow and a small sense of triumph rises in you. You are so going to win this._

_'I didn't really like her at first, no – truth be told, I still don't think we'll end up best friends, but she is a good lawyer and more than able to handle the job.' You are almost amazed at how calm you sound, and clearly from his expression he can't tell if you are __lying__ or not – perfect. You would never be stupid enough to assume you could somehow make House think you were being perfectly honest – he knows you too well for that. All you need is for him to not be sure. 'And I didn't speak to you for a year because you got your dumb ass fired, and I never saw you outside of work.'_

_'You could have called,' he shot back rapidly, and your feel your heart rate speed up – you are skating dangerously close to the topic of __**that **__night._

_'I was mad.' You shrug, as if it were that simple and you can see the retort on the tip of his tongue, but he can't speak it, because he knows as well as you where that conversation would go. He is watching you closely and suddenly he smiles, stepping closer to you until he is on the border of your personal space, poised to invade. _

_'You don't like her. Why did you hire her?'_

_'Why do you care?' You speak lightly, crossing your arms in front of you as if it would ward him off. 'Shouldn't you be happy? You're working with her again.'_

_'I didn't – I liked it separate. Work and home,' he finally answers, and you watch carefully as he glances down over you with the word 'work' – you feel victory so close you can smell it. Your eyes narrow suspiciously, because it is never this easy with him – and your arms drop to your side._

_'Then don't talk to her. It's not my problem, House.' He is moving closer, minimal amounts but you notice anyway – your skin is always hyper-aware of its proximity to his._

_'What are you doing?' He sounds sure of himself now, and you curse inwardly as his eyes search your face – probably for anything that would answer his question, since you clearly won't. 'Don't do it.' His voice is so soft, you have to lean closer to hear him, and he draws in a surprised breath after he speaks._

_Guilt is a heavy weight around your neck, but you are strong enough to stand underneath it. He just doesn't know any better than to ask you for this. You consider playing stupid, but it's beneath both of you, and you both know it. 'She already signed her contract.'_

_'You know that's not what I mean. Don't make this worse – or harder than it has to be.' You would say he is almost pleading, if you didn't know any better. Still, his voice makes you suddenly uncomfortable with your own thoughts and feelings. __Harder than it has to be – but for whom?__Him or you?_

_'House __– '__ Your voice is weak and he is staring down at you, an expression of pity on his face, and bile rises in your throat as you begin to understand. He meant for you. This was his way of warning you – he was moving on, and not with you. You can feel the pulse jumping in your throat and the room seems a bit too small, a bit too suffocating as the realization crashes down over you._

_He doesn't want you anymore._

_Your eyes are sparkling – anger and pain lighting you up from the inside out like a blazing inferno. __'Unless you have something work-related to discuss – get the hell out.'_

_'Just leave Stacy – ' His warning is quick and you feel a burst of anger as you shove him back until he hits the chair behind him. How dare he – how dare he assume that you couldn't do your job in a professional manner. The plans you had been making are shattered around you, irrefutable proof that you hadn't planned on being professional at all. But those were your shards of glass to cut yourself on – not his weapons._

_'Go.' It's all you can manage and you are shaking with anger. He is either stubborn or stupid, because he doesn't listen as he stands up and watches you desperately trying not to come undone. He looks at you like he doesn't even realize it. __Like he isn't aware of exactly how much you are bleeding on the inside right now._

_He doesn't want you anymore._

_'Cuddy – '_

_'Dr. Cuddy,' you snap, and he steps back in shock. You don't want him here, in your face, and you don't want him in your head either. You don't want him – and he doesn't want you, and that's just perfect really._

_His hand reaches out and brushes your shoulder gently; almost with regret, but you don't want his regret so you smack it away, the sound sharp and echoing in the otherwise silent room. You straighten up, pulling everything inward until you are tightly strung with your self control alone. You will not let him see it – you are stronger than that. __Stronger than him._

_'Is there anything else, Dr. House?' You sound like fresh steel, still sizzling, and he blinks at you oddly. _

_'Cuddy, come on...' He sounds like he is laughing slightly but you ignore him, walking over and pulling your lab coat on. It is amazing even you how well he has trained you over the years. __To lie, to hide everything.__ You've gotten almost too good at it._

_'I have patients to see this morning.' Your voice is short and you don't wait to see if he accepts the excuse or not. You simply walk out of your office, increasing in speed until you find yourself five flights up in the emergency stairwell. You are surrounded by cold grey as you sink to the floor and forget how to breathe._

* * *

She was obscenely happy the next day – happier than she should have been, happier than was safe – but she didn't care as she finished this month's budget (ten days early) and decided to spend some free time up in the children's cancer ward.

The walls were blindingly white, with blue, purple and orange train tracks winding across them. She sat next to a small girl – with big hazel eyes and a hot pink scarf tied around her head – and took turns drawing pictures for each other while she perched precariously on a small chair made for a toddler.

"Draw a dog." The girl had started demanding random pictures while she huddled over her own drawing, not letting anyone take a peek. Fourteen small pictures later, Cuddy was presented with a painstakingly drawn picture of the two of them. Color-coded down to the dark brown for her hair, and the bright magenta of the girl's scarf, both smiling and surrounded by a sea of orange.

"It's beautiful." She smiled at the small girl, carefully folding the picture and placing it on her lap.

"Macaroni and cheese. It's my favourite crayon," the girl whispered, and Cuddy nodded with a smile before pressing the three crayons in her hand onto the tabletop by the girl's wrist and carefully gathering up every single drawing on the table. "I'll hang them." The girl smiled up at Cuddy, who had to turn away and pretend to get paged, so she wouldn't have to explain inexplicable tears to a seven-year-old child.

She walked quickly, her head falling forward as she hurried her steps down the hall. When she ran into someone, she shot her head up with apologetic swiftness. "I'm so sorr– Wilson." She nodded, and he removed his hands from her elbows and nodded awkwardly as well. The silence stretched between them, high-strung and waiting to break.

She held her breath, but after a minute of him alternating the placement of his hands from his hips to his hair, she simply nodded again and stepped around him gracelessly. His hand grabbed her elbow at the last minute and she paused, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Thank you. For not telling him – what I said." Wilson could have been talking to the third tile from the left of the linoleum floor, but she sighed softly and turned to face him.

"I wouldn't do that. You're his best friend, Wilson."

"And we know how you feel about it – "

"No." She dropped her voice to a whisper and his eyes met hers for a half a second, dark pools of too many emotions that she didn't want to see. When his eyes moved on, up to the ceiling, back to the floor, and finally settling on her left shoulder, which they both found they could handle. "You don't know – Wilson you over reacted – "

"Really?" He was meeting her eyes again, and now it was her turn to look away before she couldn't any longer, sucked in by the swirling vortex of guilt, anger and judgement there.

"I won't tell him. Any of it."

Wilson nodded, and his hands returned to his hips. She didn't look back as she continued to walk down the hall, not slowing her pace until she had turned four corners and heard the heavy thud of the stairwell door echoing around her.

* * *

_You chose a mixture of warm wood and __florals__. There is more furniture in this office now and it seems warmer, more welcoming – which is what you'd been aiming for. Wilson is wringing his hands while sitting on the sofa kitty-corner to your chair and looking at you with desperate eyes. _

_'Please, Cuddy.' It __hurts,__ the pleading tone in his voice as he stares at you. He is trying to guilt you into it, and sadly, it's very nearly working. 'I have never seen him like this. He got fired again – he's always fighting with Stacy – '_

_'Why can't she fix him?' you finally sigh and Wilson just gives you a look. 'Wilson, he does not want to hear from me. It's been over a year – '_

_'He misses you.' Wilson interrupts __softly,__ and you feel that familiar guilt creeping under your heart again. Wilson's voice is soft, but the accusation is still there – has been for a year. He never pretended to understand why you cut yourself off from House. And you didn't feel close enough to him to unburden yourself. It was safer. He was happy – you were... well you weren't in as much pain. It was the only way._

_'Wilson….' Your voice is slightly tense now and he sighs, leaning back and backing off._

_'You could hire him now.' Wilson offers hopefully and you laugh shortly. The same thought occurred to you five days ago when you'd heard he was fired. Two days, no sleep and enough coffee to kill someone later, you had drafted the letter. You hated him just enough for being happy – you convinced yourself that it was enough to protect yourself. No one else could handle him. You wanted the excuse anyway – like someone addicted, you kept pushing him away with one hand and dragging him back with the other._

_'I already mailed out an offer.' You speak finally into the heavy silence and Wilson sags with relief. 'Don't be too relieved, Wilson – you know him. He probably won't accept. __Me as his boss?__ That's got to be hard.'_

_'Hard for him but not for me?'__ Wilson is teasing and you smile – and almost mean it. 'It's a start. Maybe...' He exhales softly and looks across at you. 'Maybe he'll accept.'_

_'Oh sure.'__ Your voice is dry – you don't believe it for a second, but only time will tell. And if by some miracle he does accept, you need to figure out how in the hell to deal with him. Because every way you've tried so far has failed miserably._


	5. Jaune

* * *

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this one. As usal, I owe it all to alias424 who is the most fantastic beta ever. In life. Enjoy, and comment.

* * *

The sun was bleeding magenta into the dark blue sky above it as she sipped her tea and sat on her back porch in the pre-dawn light. It was quiet – far too early for anyone to be up – and no noise permeated the solace of her fenced-in yard. No cars passed down her street, there were no voices, no children's laughter, just the hum of crickets and the golden strains of silence.

She sat enjoying the quiet – her fingers laced around the mug as she sank into the weathered boards of her steps. The door slid open behind her, and she smiled slightly and inched to the left to make room.

"Wow, who knew there was even light at this time of night?" His voice was gravelly as he eased down on the step next to her and took the mug from her hands. He took one sip before he pulled a face and handed it back to her. "Ugh – where's the coffee?"

"In the cupboard above the pot – waiting for you to make it. Did I wake you?" Her voice was soft as she watched the pink rising on the horizon, higher and higher, lightening the sky bit by bit. Any minute now, the sun would peek over the edge, dragging streaks of yellow and mauve with it until the whole sky was lit up like a psychedelic morning cocktail.

"No. Couldn't sleep." He shrugged uncomfortably, and she turned her head to study him for a moment. He looked tired – slight shadows under his eyes that probably matched hers. She sighed, moving closer to him until she could feel the heat rising from his skin. He didn't move back, so clearly he either didn't notice or didn't mind. She chose not to think which one it was.

She was having trouble sleeping again – her mind keeping her awake as it finally caught up with everything around her. She had dreams about being there. When he was shot – crimson blood and blue eyes fading. It terrified her. He would disappear, and she would sit in the dark, staring at the red until it seemed colorless – a faded grey against her skin. Then the voice would come – a faint saffron glow and tiny repeated words. _Where's my Daddy?_

It woke her every single time – heart racing and fear causing her stomach to clench.

She didn't talk to him about it though – because it was irrelevant. It wasn't about the shooting per se – she knew that. It was about her being absolutely terrified of raising this child – his child – alone. Would it hurt more because it was his? His eyes, his expressions, haunting her for the rest of her life? She had been fairly certain when she chose a known donor that it was the best choice.

She hadn't thought ahead though – and it was unlike her and so like her. She wanted to be blind to the obvious flaws in her plan. She wanted them not to exist at all. She wanted him there. In a permanent kind of way – graffitied across her life in bright blues and yellows, unable to be scrubbed away.

She came out of her thoughts when he cleared his throat – the silence having stretched just a touch (or five) too long. She blinked and saw that the sky had turned a pale blue around them; the sun had emerged and she had missed it. "Sorry. Why couldn't you sleep?" His only answer was a shrug and an uncomfortable shake of his head. She decided to drop it – lest he get curious about why she was out here – and stood, offering him a hand.

She headed back into her kitchen, placing her mug on the counter and starting to make coffee as he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed while he observed her. Her hands shook slightly as she shoved the filter in – which was ridiculous because she wasn't nervous. She had no reason to be.

"Are you ever going to – " His voice halted suddenly, and she looked up from measuring coffee with curiosity. "Never mind." He pushed away from the wall and moved slowly until he was behind her as she started the coffee maker, pausing to inhale the scent of coffee before closing the canister and sliding it back into the cupboard.

"Am I ever going to what?" She had turned now, peering up at him as she spoke. He was staring at the cupboard above her, seeing something she clearly couldn't, and when he blinked down at her in surprise, she smiled softly. "I think we both need the coffee," she sighed before picking up her mug and pouring the now-cold tea out.

"No coffee for you." He was mocking her and she growled slightly.

"One cup wouldn't – "

"You gave it up, remember? You have no way of knowing if you're – "

"I know." She sighed with exasperation, pulling a face at her empty mug as the smell of fresh caffeine filled the air. "Can I stand next to you and inhale while you drink?"

"That would be uncomfortable."

"Well that's just icing." She grinned slightly as she pushed away from the counter. "And unlike some people – I have to go get ready for work."

"Sucker," he teased as she moved to the kitchen doorway. She ignored him in favour of a hot shower – which would hopefully ease her aching muscles and rinse this feeling of malcontent away.

* * *

_Your mother has grown fond of predicting your breakdown. For years she has been saying every time she sees you (which __isn't__ often at all), that 'one of these days, Lisa, you are going to hit a wall and break down'. As you sit on the floor of your shower, you think you must be doing your mother proud._

_You arrived home feeling dirtier than you ever have in your whole life. You scrub and you scrub, but you cannot get this feeling off of you, and it clings to your skin, sickly sweet and bitterly vile at the same time. Your skin is raw, red from the washing, and you can still see the bruises – a hand span at you hip and noticeable finger marks on your arms __– and__ you feel sick and weak as you sit under the scalding water and finally cry._

_Even here it is not safe – even here there are memories of him everywhere. __In this shower – against that tile – in your bedroom – on the couch.__ Everywhere you look, what you could have had but never will dances around you like shadows thrown from a fire._

_Your shoulders won't stop shaking and you cannot stop this feeling, like he has tattooed guilt onto every spare inch of your skin. You are nauseous and you hate yourself._

_You hate your choices._

_You hate your career._

_And oh how desperately you want to hate him._

_The water turns cold and you shake as you turn it off – and as cold air __hits__ your skin, you begin to shake violently, pulling the towel roughly across yourself before walking out into your bedroom and pulling out your suitcase._

_You have to move on – and the only way to do that is to have a plan. You are good with plans. Never touch him again. Never go to his house again. You shove your clothes into the case absently as your mind races. You'll take a vacation – three weeks–worth and you will go somewhere and wear nothing but black and eat sugar and mourn._

_He has died tonight. __To you._

_You will sell this condo and buy a house as far away from him and within distance of the hospital as you possibly can._

_You will mourn him, because he is dead. __Has to be for you._

_You will come back, and he will be gone from your life, from your skin, from your heart. It's survival of the fittest, and sadly, you are fitter than he is._

_You are the one that killed him. Twisted, ugly scars between you prove that._

_You slam the suitcase shut and drag on black pants and a sweater. You don't even look back as you shut the door for the last time, don't even think as you take a cab to the airport and call your assistant on the way._

_He is dead. You are dying._

_And mourning and misery are the only cures._

* * *

When she returned from the shower, he was in the middle of the crossword – her morning paper scattered in sections around him. She grabbed a yogurt and a banana from the fridge before sitting kitty-corner to him at the table. He didn't look up, but slid the front page section and world news sections over to her.

He took a slow, noisy sip of coffee and she looked up with a glare. "Ass."

"Addict," he shot back, and she rolled her eyes, glancing down at his crossword puzzle thoughtfully.

"Twelve down is emery," she pointed out as she ripped the blue and gold foil from her yogurt. He sighed in irritation – he hated when she did it – which was why she did it as often as possible.

"Thanks." His sarcasm almost spilled onto the table, sloshing into their breakfast. "Nail file element – I would have figured it out."

"Eventually," she poked slightly, and he glared at her. "So what are you up to today?"

"Well, I was thinking I'd start off by downloading lots of lesbian porn onto your computer. Then once that was done – I would go through all of your things – "

"As long as you don't try anything on this time. You totally stretched out my favourite thongs last time." She spoke with a straight face, and he sighed. A smile twitched the corner of her mouth as she fought not to grin.

"But you loved them on me! Life is about compromise, Cuddy." He drained his cup before standing, and she laughed softly once he left the room. When she had finished her breakfast, she wandered back into the kitchen, spying his mug on the counter above the dishwasher. She tossed her container in the garbage with a sigh and moved over to the counter, picking his cup up and putting it in the almost empty dishwasher.

She was putting her shoes on by the door when he wandered through again. "Lunch?"

"What?" She was distracted, digging through her purse for her keys and coming up empty. 'Where are my damned keys?"

He limped toward her slowly, pausing by the hall table and grabbing her keys before handing them to her. "Lunch, Cuddy."

"Thanks," she said distractedly – her mind already whirling off in a multitude of directions – why her keys had been there, the meeting she had with the CFO today, the performance reviews she had to finish, and somewhere back in the shadowed corners of her mind, tiny voices with terrifying questions and faint glowing lights. "Wait – what?"

"I thought I'd come by for lunch." He spoke in a too-slow voice, and she looked up at him.

"With me? Is that a good idea?" They weren't hiding their... whatever it was… precisely – but it wasn't being broadcast either.

"Well, last I checked you need to eat. And I need any excuse I can get to go spy on the kids and make sure they're not killing anyone – "

"If you want to come back to work – "

"No, no, no!" he protested quickly, and she smiled knowingly. "I mean I had this stitch in my side the other day – and I was feeling weak when I went to bed last night."

"That was the sex, House. And face it – you miss work. But you're entitled to eight weeks – "

"Exactly. I love that word. Entitled. Has a nice ring to it. So – lunch, yes or no?"

She sighed as she pulled open the door and looked back at him. "Yes. But not until one. One-thirty, actually, I have a budgetary meeting and a – "

He pushed the door closed as she was speaking, pressing her against the solid wood. When she opened her mouth, he covered it with his own – kissing her until her skin flushed pink and she could see a golden glow from the lack of oxygen. When he stepped back, she was breathless. She leaned for a moment against the door – pressing her back against the cool wood with her eyes closed. When she opened them, all she could see was the base of his throat – the scar there faded now into a pale white. Unable to think of anything to say – she simply nodded when he stepped back.

She opened the door and exited quickly – her lips still tingling and suddenly extremely hungry for lunch.

* * *

_You hate her. Sure, you've only met her once – and you had avoided that for almost six months__ but you ran out of excuses and emergencies, and you were forced to meet her. And you hate her. You know it looks odd that you escaped the pub to come out here – but he is in there with her, and Wilson and his wife – and you are alone. It seems to __bitchslap__ you in the face and you hate it, and her. She's too tall – he probably doesn't have to bend awkwardly to kiss her, like he did with you. Her accent is annoying – grating and flat – and she laughs at his jokes. Nobody laughs at House's jokes. She makes him smile, and her eyes crinkle when she calls him Greg and every time she does, there is an odd stabbing sensation in your sternum. It hurts – you knew it would, but you didn't think it would actually, physically hurt._

_So you escape the smoke-filled pub, and you go outside, breathing in the bitter fall air in deep __lungfuls__. You stumble over to a nearby bench – you aren't drunk, you didn't even finish the one beer you ordered, but you feel nausea churning away in your stomach anyway. The bench is __cold,__ biting against your backside and legs, but it is a welcome sensation after the numbness you felt in there. Your eyes burn and you want to cry – which is ridiculous. You had thought she wouldn't last long. You had stupidly thought he would get tired, or realize she wasn't you and stop this. He hadn't. And he almost seemed happier, more relaxed __– you__ saw it tonight for the first time, and it made you feel sick. _

_It wasn't like you hadn't dated – you had, but with every guy – every random, faceless guy - you touched you felt the guilt eat away at you. You were more miserable dating than when you were alone. You had thought __– shouldn't__ it be the same for him? You see now that it wasn't – did that mean that the way you felt was – that he didn't…._

_You sigh harshly and shove a hand roughly through your hair. You should go – but guilt keeps you pinned to this hard metal bench. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see blue – and it only makes you more upset, so you scrub at your eyes instead. _

_'I got fired today.' He sits on the bench next to you and you stare at him for a moment in shock. You didn't even hear him walk up to you, but you tear your eyes away from his and see the rest of them huddled in a group across the street, laughing. 'So whatever reason you're out here – can't be crappier than mine.'_

_You can't even speak for the disbelief clawing at your chest. What was left now? If he was serious – and he certainly sounded it – you wouldn't even get to see him at work now. 'What did you do?!' Your voice is angry – and he blinks but __you____**are**__ angry. How could he do this? A small voice in your head whispers insipidly that maybe it's for the best, but your throat is closing and you can't see it right now._

___'Do? Cuddy – it wasn't like I was planning on getting fired – '_

___'No, but did you go to any lengths to avoid it?' Your voice is high and unnatural and he sits up, glaring at you harshly._

___'I saved a life.'_

___'You could have saved that life and still played the politics. You could have – '_

___'Cuddy!'__ His voice is sharp and the group across the street is staring at you, but you don't really care at this point._

___'And now what?__ You work somewhere else – where, House?'_

___'I'm applying to Princeton Gen. I have a good chance __– I__ don't get it __– what's__ the big deal?' He is staring at you like you are crazy, but it feels like the last straw. You are sitting on a stupid bench in the bitter cold, trying desperately not to cry or kill him and you are watching him leave, piece by piece. Your friendship isn't what it used to be. You barely see him socially __– and__ now that you've met __her, that__ slips away almost completely too and now he's telling you that because he was too stubborn or stupid, he's no longer your colleague either. Everything is disappearing so fast, and while you could pinpoint it to one night – one stupid decision followed by other more stupid choices – your eyes land on Stacy across the street and your gaze sharpens. You'd rather have someone to blame it on._

___'No big deal.' Your voice is bitter, and even he looks surprised by it as you stand up abruptly, shoving your shaking hands into your coat pockets. 'I'm leaving.' It was a relief to say, and part of you meant it more than you should, but he stands next to you quickly, turning toward you and shielding the others from your view._

___'Running again, Cuddy?' He is taunting you now, his eyes sharp like glass as they scrape across you._

___'What can I say? I'm a runner,' you respond briefly, almost carelessly, and his gaze zeroes in on your eyes._

___'Why did you come out here, Cuddy?' He is pressing you with his words, his eyes and his voice. It almost makes you want to tell him, but makes you want to squirm away at the same time. You open your mouth but Stacy calls his name from across the road impatiently and he lifts a hand in response._

___'It's not important, Greg.' You echo Stacy's call bitterly and he frowns at you. 'I just needed some air – and now I need to go home.' You are tired suddenly, and the small voice in your mind is suddenly bigger. Maybe this is the only way to deal with... everything._

___'Cuddy...' He seems reluctant to let you go and you smile in sad understanding._

___'Goodnight, House.' You can't seem to bring yourself to say goodbye – because neither of you ever do that, and it would seem far too permanent. As you turn and walk away, your hands are still shaking with anger – at him, or yourself, you're not sure - and your eyes are filling with tears again, with no one to hide them from anymore._

* * *

She looked over the report in front of her with a sigh. They needed more funding for House's department. Again. It happened roughly once every eighteen months or so – she ran out of readily available cash for his department and was forced to find it elsewhere. Because making cuts was not an option. She would have to throw another fundraiser – an added stress that she didn't particularly want or need – but a necessary one. And somehow she would have to convince House to attend.

There was a knock on her door, and Brenda strode in with two paper cups in her hands and a smile. "It's herbal." Brenda handed her a cup as she spoke, pulling a disgusted face as she sank onto the couch with Cuddy. "I have no idea how you can drink that crap."

Cuddy took a sip and made a face as well before setting the cup down on the table in front of them. "Neither do I. I suppose it's worth it though, in the long run."

"Yes, nothing like someone entirely dependent on you for twenty years to make it all worth it."

Brenda's tone was dry but Cuddy laughed anyway. "You like kids."

"I like other people's kids. I get to give those back and often get paid for dealing with them." She waved at the cup on the table before speaking again. "Should I have just brought decaf? I mean, generally I employ a strict 'what the hell is the point?' policy toward decaf, but desperate times…."

"No, this is great thanks." Cuddy smiled warmly, pushing the papers onto the table beside the paper cup and sinking back with an exhausted sigh.

"You look like crap," Brenda pointed out bluntly.

"Wow – thanks so much. Nothing like friends to keep that self-confidence high." Cuddy spoke with sarcasm and Brenda laughed.

"I think you mean nothing like friends to be concerned about you. What's going on?" She nudged Cuddy's knee with her feet which she had folded under her comfortably – the one advantage of scrubs was comfort. Cuddy couldn't exactly curl up in her own cream-colored pencil skirt.

"I didn't sleep well last night," Cuddy finally disclosed with a sigh, causing Brenda to jerk her foot back as horror crossed her face.

"Ew! Ew, God I do not want to hear about that!"

"Sex didn't keep me up, you idiot! I've just had trouble sleeping," she finished lamely, and Brenda cocked a brow at her disbelievingly.

"Have you two talked at all about the shooting – "

"No," Cuddy ground out before smiling apologetically. "We've talked about what happened to... the guy." She waved her hands expressively and Brenda nodded in understanding. "But House is, well, House. He doesn't talk to me about it really – "

"Oh sure. I mean, why would you? It's not like you're in a committed relationship or anything – "

"We're not," Cuddy interjected, and Brenda rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust.

"I know, I know. I've seen the matinee performance of this. It's just about the baby, and it's not emotional." Cuddy nodded in agreement as Brenda spoke, only to stare at her next words. "Except... you love him. Lord knows why, but you do. Oh and also, he's totally living with you."

"He's not living with me." Cuddy pointed out, happily side-stepping the first part of Brenda's statement.

"Of course not. Was he there last night?" She waited until Cuddy nodded, narrowing her eyes. "The night before? Does he have a key."

"No, he does not have a key," Cuddy spoke triumphantly.

"Okay then, Cleopatra – he's had a copy of your house and office keys for the last seven years – he just has permission to use them now."

"I hate you," Cuddy muttered, pulling the file off the table as she searched for her shoes.

"And I brought you herbal tea and everything!" Brenda mocked with a laugh as Cuddy mumbled, shoving her feet into her shoes. "Your meeting starts in ten, right? Want to do lunch later?" Brenda was looking down at her watch as she spoke. Cuddy stood, shaking her head.

"I can't I'm having lunch with – "

"The boyfriend?" Brenda offered with a helpful smile. Cuddy glared down at her.

"Not my boyfriend – "

"Lover? Sperm donor? Androgynous life partner – wait that's House and Wilson." Cuddy couldn't quite suppress her laughter as she headed for her office door.

"Lock the office when you're done with your break, please?" Cuddy didn't wait for Brenda's nod – she trusted her implicitly. Brenda's laughter echoed after her as the door closed, and Cuddy headed for the elevators with a small smile gracing her mouth.

* * *

___You should feel guilty, but you can't bring yourself to. Maybe tomorrow when you see Stacy at work, or maybe once he's gone and you realize once again that you are alone anyway, despite his breath on your neck and his arms around you right now. You've been pretending to hate him for months, and he's been pretending not to care._

___When you opened the door earlier, he had barely given you a chance to breathe in your shock before his hands were in your hair and he was consuming you, his lips on your skin and his body pressed against yours. You didn't even protest – not one word was spoken between you, and the silence is almost oppressive as you lie listening to his heartbeat and his hand strokes along your neck and shoulder idly. You don't want to be the first to break it, though – because if you start speaking, you're afraid everything will come pouring out, like pulling the knife out of a stab wound. _

___'I'm sorry.' His voice is quiet, muffled against your hair, and you freeze, because out of everything – this wasn't what you had expected him to say. __'Cuddy?'_

___'For what?'__ Your voice is terse and his hand moves back up along your neck until it's tangled in your hair and holding it tightly. He doesn't speak, and you sigh soundlessly, knowing what he's sorry for. He is too weak to resist the temptation, but he has no intention of leaving Stacy either. 'Don't.' You finally speak and his hand stills at the sound of it. You look up at him – hating yourself and him, too – because you are weaker than he is. __Because you are willing to accept this – over anything else._

___'Cuddy...' He is protesting now, but you don't want to listen to him so you shut him up by pressing your mouth against his. It is gentler this time – in a way it hasn't been before. His arm curls around you and you know you should feel guilty or hate yourself or him, but you can't bring yourself to feel anything other than relieved as that tiny hope within you flourishes again._

___When he leaves several hours later, with a quick kiss and a mumbled apology, you smile and wrap the sheets that still smell like him around you, burying your face in them and pretending you aren't alone._

* * *

"House!" She shouted in exasperation, for the third time in a row, knowing full well he could hear her. "I swear to God I am going to kill you – "

"What, woman?" He was standing in the doorway with a scowl, and she pointed at the mug and plate sitting on the counter.

"Are you completely incapable of putting dishes in the dishwasher? It's a dishwasher – you don't have to actually wash them, just open the door and put them in." She demonstrated as she spoke, and he moved over next to her.

"That's not mine."

"Yes, it is."

"No, see, my mug is right there." He pointed at the top rack, and she stared at him incredulously for a beat.

"No." She spoke evenly and slowly. "That's your mug from this morning, which – by the way – I put in there before I left!"

"Oh come on!" he protested with a slight laugh. She found herself smiling in response despite her irritation, because it was like suddenly the room was awash with domesticity. "I took you to lunch today," he offered with a smile, and she nodded grudgingly. He had – and surprisingly enough, he had paid – which had probably caused the spread of more rumours than if he had taken her right there on the cafeteria table. Well – maybe not quite more rumours.

"You did. But if you're staying here – you need to at least do this. I'm not nagging you to take the trash out or anything – "

"Fine." He sighed exaggeratedly, and she laughed as she closed the door of the dishwasher. "Can I go back to the television now?"

"Of course." She waved him off, and he was almost at the door when she spoke again. "If that's how you want to spend your evening." He paused before turning back to her with a sly smile.

"There's an L Word marathon on right now – what's your offer?"

She grinned at his words before turning the dishwasher on and moving past him through the doorway. He was three steps behind her. "Well, I don't know if I can beat fictional lesbians, House."

"You could try. Do you have any close female friends you've touched inappropriately?" he teased as he continued to follow her down the hall toward her bedroom.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked archly, laughing when his outstretched fingers finally came in contact with her skin.

"I would, actually." His hands were turning her to face him, sliding down along her back and pulling her closer as she laughed.

"I'm a good secret keeper," she teased and his smile spread. He lowered his mouth, scraping it along her neck, and she tilted her head back and moaned as he pulled her hips even closer against his own. He lifted his head with a grin, and she looked up at him hazily.

"Good thing I'm an excellent interrogator."


	6. Vert

A/N: Almost done now - only three chapters to go. As usual, I owe it all to alias424 and her awesome awesomeness - she takes my words and makes sense of them - it's a priceless skill.

* * *

The hall was dark and silent as she padded silently down it toward the pool of light glowing faintly at the end. She had woken up again – not from a dream this time – but from a decided lack of warmth and weight in the bed. House hadn't been next to her – so she had gone to look for him, ignoring the small voice in the furthest corners of her mind chanting warnings about getting too attached.

He was sitting on the sofa – a glass of something alcoholic held loosely in his hands. If it wasn't wine, had to be that bottle of scotch she had gotten from a grateful patient two years ago. Scotch wasn't really her thing though, and she had simply placed it in the cupboard above her fridge – thinking she would use it on those rare occasions when she had company. It had remained unopened until now. "House?" Her voice was soft and thick and he didn't respond – so she moved into the room and sat on the table edge in front of him. "What are you doing up?"

He shrugged before lifting the glass and draining it in one drink, setting it on the table next to her and moving his hands to rest on her knees. "Just couldn't sleep." He tried to sound casual, but she knew from the tension in his shoulders that whatever was keeping him up was far from casual.

She sighed softly before reaching up and running a hand through his hair. He leaned forward, pressing his face into her shoulder, and she felt his weight against her and his breath hot on her skin. Her other hand smoothed comfortingly down his back as his breathing became more even. "House – is this about the sh—"

"No." His response was too quick, too short – but the warning in it was clear as a bell. He swallowed before continuing. "No – I just – it's the heat I think. Too hot to sleep." She listened to his voice, her hands still moving in repetitive circles as she debated pressing the issue. There were things she knew he would never tell her. Things that he had become so good at avoiding it was like they barely existed for him. Apparently the shooting was going to become one of those things. And if she pushed the issue – all it would get her was an argument which would more than likely lead to an empty bed. Then the next night when he couldn't sleep, she wouldn't even be there.

She felt a slow tug in her chest at that thought – like a zipper being pulled apart tooth by tooth – as aching tenderness spilled out from the opening. His skin was clammy, but she didn't comment on it, choosing instead to just nod in the semi-darkness of the room, even though he wasn't looking at her and couldn't see it. "Okay." She breathed out the word, and some of the tension drained from his frame, making him sink further into her as she braced for the added weight. She closed her eyes, pressing her face by his hair and not saying anything, because it was the most comforting thing she could do right now.

His hands slid up her thighs before moving around her hips to her lower back. It was an awkward, loose version of a hug, and he didn't speak, but she didn't mind. With House, words were sometimes absolutely everything, and others times they weren't needed at all. He reminded her of those annoying puzzles her father used to do every Saturday evening – sitting in his armchair after Shabbat had ended – the ones where every letter was actually another letter and you had to decipher the code to understand what you were reading. She still hated them to this day – had never been any good at figuring them out or even where to begin. But after her father had died, she had kept doing them every Saturday evening, long after she had left home and stopped observing Shabbat anyway – she still sat with the weekend paper, staring at the unintelligible words until her eyes hurt.

She released a breath quietly, her hands stilling as she looked down at the back of his head with affection. "Are you going back to bed?" Her eyes darted to the clock on the fireplace mantle as she spoke – it was inching near five, and she doubted she would be able to sleep now anyway.

"Aren't you?" His voice was muffled against her skin – his stubble scraping as he spoke.

"Probably not," she responded softly, and he lifted his head, removing his arms and leaving her suddenly chilled. He wiped a hand over his face and met her eyes for a moment. The silence stretched until she felt a need to fill it. "I have a meeting with the board to approve the fundraiser this morning and I can never go back to sleep once I'm awake."

"Sorry." His apology was terse and quiet – most of his apologies were, when he deigned to give them. It was something she was accustomed to – she was fairly sure she could count the amount of times she had heard the word pass his lips on one hand.

"It doesn't matter. I would have been up in a little while anyway." She shrugged as she spoke and he looked at her with a shadow of disbelief in his eyes, but didn't argue or point out the obvious truth that by 'a little while' she really meant two hours.

"I'll make coffee." His voice was rough, but not rough enough to cover the gratitude – so she simply nodded as he stood, not moving from her spot as he exited the room to cross the hall into the dining room. When the room was empty, she stood as well, moving over to open the windows and let in the faint light from the street as her eyes moved along the inky black of the night sky. The sun would come up soon enough – spilling light across the shadows and chasing them away.

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool pane of glass and hoping it would be enough for him. And for her.

* * *

_It's__ three days later when he shows up at your door, his eyes on the ground as if he still can't quite meet your gaze. You decided, after lunch with __Wilson__, you decided that you wouldn't ask House about it. You wouldn't confront him, you would just wait. Wait to see how long it took. It was a perverse decision, but honestly, most of your decisions concerning him were. You don't speak, just stare expectantly, and finally he looks up, guilt all over his face. _

_'__Wilson__ told me – I should have told you – '_

_'Why?' You are angry, possibly irrational and it's more than likely misdirected. You are pissed at him, because he had the nerve to move on. You are more pissed at yourself because you didn't have to run. Time ran out while you were still running._

_'What?' He is looking at you with a frown and you shake your head shortly._

_'Why should you have told me? You don't owe me anything House – ' _

_'Is that what you think?' His voice is somewhat bitter and you sigh, resting your forehead against the doorframe. You don't invite him in, because that's not an option – there are too many dangerous memories in the room behind you. You are tired – exhausted by the energy it takes to be this angry at yourself. How long could you do this?_

_'No,' you sigh softly before looking up at him. 'I just don't think – I don't —' __It's__ hard to explain, and you barely understand it yourself, so how could you possibly define it for him. He doesn't owe you anything. It's your fault – if you hadn't run, hadn't avoided, hadn't feared – but you had. And people who say it's never too late are sometimes wrong, and all you can do now is watch him be happy with someone else, while secretly – bitchily – praying it all blew up in his face so you could pick up the pieces._

_'I know.' He has finally spoken in the silence you left with your faltering, and his hand reaches out, brushing against yours so lightly you think maybe you imagined it – you want it bad enough, it's possible. You look at him with regret, because even if you have to survive this – even if you have to accept that he is trying to escape you, it pains you to watch it. __To think about watching them.__ He is stepping away now, nodding before turning to go – the conversation is oddly unfinished but then so are you and he. It fits._

* * *

"I think we need to solve this." Wilson's voice was a sigh, and she almost smiled at the sound of it. She didn't need to look up to know that he probably had one hand at his hip and the other running through his hair as he stood above her. Instead she just waved a hand at the park bench next to her and kept watching the sunlight play on the grass, lighting up the lawn in a multitude of greens. Where there was no shade at all it seemed to glow, almost translucent as each blade soaked up the sun.

"There's nothing to solve, Wilson." She finally spoke reluctantly as she heard the wood creak under his added weight. "I'm not upset with you—"

"I just need to know what's going on, Cuddy." He sounded sad, like a lost little boy, and she glanced up at him – hues of harlequin still dancing along the edges of her vision – tinting him in fluorescence. "I know you haven't told him what I said—"

"It doesn't have anything to do with him, Wilson – not really," she interrupted softly, and he looked at her reproachfully.

"Doesn't it? Doesn't everything, Cuddy?" He spoke with the slightest tinge of envy, and she stared at him without speaking – unable to say anything that wouldn't make things worse. "Of course it's about him – it always is. I know what you told me – but I think we both know you lied."

She bit her lip and looked away, unable to take the sympathy in his eyes as he watched her closely. Wilson was often misjudged by others – as being the quiet one, the calm one, the nice one. Most times people were right. But "most times" wasn't all the time – not even close. "I didn't lie."

"Cuddy – there is no way this is all just about the baby. Why can't you just say it? Admit how you feel?"

"If I admit it to you – well, I may as well admit it to him. It's practically the same thing," she voiced softly, avoiding his gaze as she watched the clouds move lazily across the sky.

"I would never tell him—"

"Yes, you would." She laughed the words out, turning toward him incredulously. "Wilson, he would talk to you about something – after I'm pregnant and everything is over – and you would feel a need to tell him. Make him happier, save him from himself."

"Is that so bad, Lisa? You love him – you're going to—" Wilson broke off suddenly as two nurses strolled by. He smiled and waved awkwardly, waiting until they had left the area before speaking again. "You're trying to have his _child_ for God's sake. You don't think that says something? You're tying yourself to him—"

"No," she interrupted again sadly, "I'm not." She shifted, leaning until the wooden slats of the bench pressed against her back – so hot it felt like it was burning. "He doesn't want the things I want. A family – a commitment."

"_You_ don't want those things, Cuddy. If you did – you would have taken them when I—" He broke off, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his teeth. "You want him. That family – that commitment in your head – it's only with him."

"It would never work."

"So what? You'll take what you can get? God, Lisa – what happened to you? Where is the girl I knew who didn't stop until she became the youngest female Dean in the country? Giving up isn't like you." He was almost pleading with her now, and she smiled slightly as she leaned forward again, watching a bird fly by, up into the shade of a tree where it perched by its nest. The bird poked at it, rearranging small bits as it darted in and out of the myrtle foliage – attempting to obtain the perfect level of comfort. When it finally settled down – alone – she wondered if it had achieved it.

"Is it really giving up, Wilson? I waited twenty years – I looked for a replacement and there wasn't any. So what if I'm taking what I can get now? Maybe I need something – something to just hold on to. To prove that it was real." His hand was on her shoulder then – soft with comfort, and she fought the urge to shrug it off as she blinked back tears.

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe if you tell him the truth it will turn out alright?" His words were meant as a comfort, she knew – a small gift of hope for her. And it was a big gesture from him. It was his way of saying he was fine with it now, despite what had happened between them all those weeks ago.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I did try that – and it ended badly?" She smiled over her shoulder at him and he frowned at her. "I appreciate it, Wilson – this olive branch or whatever it is you're trying to do here. But it isn't necessary. I know what I'm doing."

"Okay. Just – I'm here if you need me. Either of you." He stood, and looked down at her doubtfully. "For the record, though – I don't think it would end badly. And I don't think you do either – and that's why it terrifies you."

She watched him walk away silently – not taking her eyes off his retreating form until it had disappeared through the side entrance of the hospital. Wilson was sweet – but he didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He only had half the facts – and those were brief at best. She wasn't scared of admitting her feelings for House.

She was scared of the silence she was sure to get in return.

* * *

_'I can't do this anymore.' You have been practising the words for days – weeks really, but only days since you consciously decided._

_'Do what, Cuddy?' He is smiling across at you and you realize you could have picked a better time to do this. A more fully-dressed time, and not first thing in the morning on one of the nights he risked lying about working on a case just so he could wake up with you. You sit up slightly and stare down at him with regret and guilt clawing at your insides, ripping you apart from the inside out._

_'This,' you whisper, and he is silent for a moment as he stares at you gravely._

_'What brought this on?' His tone is biting – on the attack, but you had expected it – and you aren't surprised. 'Because you seemed fine with 'this' last night when you were – '_

_'Don't.' You stand up, wrapping the sheet around you because you can't sit that close to him and do this. It isn't possible. 'She came to see me a month ago – she keeps coming to see me, House, do you know why?' Your voce is rising and you are pacing back and forth as his eyes follow you._

_'Cuddy – we haven't exactly been getting along lately __– '__ He is referring to himself and Stacy with the faintest tone of accusation – as if this is your fault._

_'She is convinced you're cheating on her. And she's telling me this – me. And I can handle a lot of things, House, but listening to a woman whose boyfriend I'm sleeping with cry about how pathetic she is for staying isn't one of them. She's convinced she's the pathetic one, and what does that make me?' You are yelling now, standing at the foot of your bed and staring at him with expectations in your eyes. Expectations he will never ever live up to._

_'Cuddy – '_

_'No,' you snap with a quick jerk of your hand as you struggle to breathe properly. 'I love you. I think that you know that – you __**have**__ to know that and __– '__ You aren't breathing right and the words are coming out as sharp gasps and whispers. His eyes are burning into yours and the air seems to have left the room, and you can't do anything except stand before him exposed and hurting._

_'Cuddy...' He is whispering your name that way again – like it's a caress, like it's a declaration. He is moving across the room now and his hands are on your shoulders, pulling you against him as his mouth presses against yours softly. You kiss him back for a moment, but all you can taste is the salt of your tears and you think that this is what failure feels like._

_'I can't do this anymore. It hurts. She's hurting me, and I'm hurting her, and you're killing the both of us.' You need to step back, move away from him because it hurts even more to say these things when he's so close and his taste is still on your tongue. His hands tighten, gripping you to him as you struggle to get some space._

_'Cuddy – no __– '__ You aren't listening to him and you fight harder because if you stop struggling – if you stop fighting for even a second – you'll give in._

_'Lisa!' His voice is loud, and you finally still, tears hot on your face as he presses it to his chest, one hand tangled in your hair painfully and the other with a bruising grip on your waist. 'I'll tell her. Okay? God, I'll tell her everything and I'll – we'll – '_

_'Really?'__ Your voice is disbelieving – he has never promised you anything before for a good reason._

_'I will. I swear.' He sounds a bit relieved now and his grip loosens slightly until you can take a breath again. 'We're going mini-golfing tomorrow. I'll tell her then. Not the best place but at least she can't kill me in public, right?' _

_You think for a moment of how much this will hurt her, but as his hands begin stroking along your skin soothingly and his lips are pressing to your temple, you can't seem to care. One of you had to be hurt. And you couldn't be anything but happy that it wasn't going to be you._

* * *

The house was silent when she entered it that evening – unusually quiet as she moved through the front hall into her dining room. It felt empty for the first time in months and she knew before she read his note that he wasn't there.

It was on the table – scrawled hastily so she had to squint and re-read it three times before finally deciphering his handwriting. He was at his place – and hadn't really given a clear reason. She felt a slight sting – like a child slapped by a parent, blinking and not entirely believing where it had come from.

She sighed and put water on to boil as she stared out her window into the early evening lighting – blues and oranges mixing together with aubergine shades that left a sense of disquiet in its wake. There was something eerie and not right about the sky as it grew darker and darker like a slow motion fade to black. It was a feeling that ricocheted into her well-lit kitchen and straight into her chest as she struggled to not care that he wasn't there.

The kettle whistled, startling her out of her thoughts, and she turned it off – staring down at it and wondering why exactly she had boiled the water in the first place. Her hand was still wrapped around her car keys – brass and stainless steel biting into her palm. Her subconscious was poking at the back of her mind – like a small child who came across an animal lying in the road – poking to make sure it's really dead – then jumping back and running like hell when it twitched. She turned around, keys still making permanent impressions in her skin as she flicked the kitchen light off – silencing the hum of the fluorescent lights and leaving only her thoughts echoing in the absolute quiet.

Her keys jangled slightly as her hand reached out for the doorknob, twisting it easily under her hand as she stepped back out into the strange twilight and walked back to her car. It wasn't that she needed him – or even thought he needed her. She repeated the thought as she slid the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over.

She didn't need him, but the light was odd and her day had been strange and she just had to be sure he was okay. She slid the car into reverse and pressed her foot onto the gas pedal, ignoring the silence that trailed her into the car. She moved into drive, flicking the headlights on to illuminate the too-dark evening. She didn't need him. She just wanted him.

* * *

_You watch him through the window, screaming in pain while you clutch his results, wondering if it's possible to die of guilt. Stacy is at his side, and for the first time since she appeared, you think maybe she deserves to be there more than you. You didn't get the report from the clinic for two days – and even then, your anger colors your judgement._

_You thought he was avoiding you – unable to tell you that he had changed his mind and he was staying with her after all – he had faked being sick to avoid you. When you finally read the report, even then, you had yourself convinced he was doing this to get away from you. _

_When he was admitted again, and sent for an MRI by the __emerg__ doctors who had admitted him, you were sent the results and felt the guilt churning so deeply you thought maybe you would throw up, right there in the middle of the hall. This could have been avoided. You could have checked on him instead of assuming he had changed his mind._

_Instead, you are standing outside his room, staring as he grips Stacy's hand in pain – wondering how exactly you tell the man you love that he has to lose his leg._

* * *

It would have been better if he had looked surprised to find her on his doorstep for a change, but he didn't. He didn't even answer the door – simply telling her it was open and not looking up from where he sat at the piano bench when she walked in, shutting and locking the door behind her.

When she slid next to him, the wood of the bench blessedly cool as she sidled up next to him like a small child, his hands paused on the keys and his head turned toward her.

"Missed me that much huh?" His voice was thick – and it clashed with his words – meant to be light and coming across as way too serious.

"The house was quiet," she pointed out simply, and he nodded before turning his attention back to the keys.

"Thought you liked quiet."

"Less than I used to." Her voice was so low, she didn't even think he would hear her – but he stilled again and nodded.

"I had PT today – drove the bike over and I saw – I just felt like coming home." His words were rough and halting – at odds with the smooth notes that flowed out of the instrument in front of them. She felt a slight pinch across her sternum (it only hurt for a second) as she listened to him, nodding.

"That's fine. I can – do you want me to go?" She felt like she was dragging the conversation out of them – he was holding onto his words too tightly and hers were lodged in the back of her throat – screaming and unwilling to come out. She wanted to know what the hell was causing it – identify the problem and deal with it – but that was her M.O., not his.

He sighed heavily, staring down at his hands on the keys and remaining silent for a minute. She sat forward – the edge of the bench digging into the backs of her thighs as she perched next to him – waiting to see if she could relax or not.

"No." He finally spoke softly and she nodded, almost sagging in relief against him. Then she did lean against him – leaning to the left that slight half inch so that her shoulder brushed his and she could reassure her over-reactive mind that he was there – and she was fine. She didn't speak – her mind going over the last few days – searching for anything that would have brought on this mood in him. Other than her latest implantation three days ago – she was coming up empty.

"Is this about my appointment at Robin's last week? I mean I thought – "

"No." He shook his head as he spoke, his hands never stilling as they danced across the keys evasively. "Just needed clothes."

"Oh." Her voice echoed his, uninspired, as her eyes followed his hands and avoided his face. She knew he was lying. And for all her experience with House – she had yet to figure out a way to make him say something he didn't want to. It was why she had a lifetime of mistakes made with him, and twenty years worth of longing lodged somewhere in her chest cavity every time she looked in his eyes.

"I saw you and Wilson – before I left," he volunteered, breaking the muted silence around them. She looked up in shock – that he was volunteering information at all. "You looked busy – I didn't interrupt."

She turned toward him in slow motion, like a clock spring unwinding – about to fly apart. "Who are you and where did you put the real House? You didn't want to interrupt? You _live_ to interrupt – it's one of your favourite hobbies."

"It looked – " He paused and she cocked her head, waiting for him to continue. "It just looked... personal." His tone changed slightly on the last word, curling up like not quite ready to bloom buds. Closed-off in an attempt to protect itself from the elements.

"We were talking about – " She halted, her heart racing. Like running toward the horizon full tilt, only to realize it was actually a precipice. He turned toward her, his eyes pinning hers down as he studied her – and she knew it was too late anyway. She was falling off despite her desperate attempts to grab a finger-hold. "You actually."

"Me?"

"Wilson thinks I should – disclose certain things." She paused, as her heart beat so hard against her chest she was sure if she looked down she was see green blooming into eggplant as it bruised her from the inside out.

"And?" He paused as she stared at him, mute with terror. "Are you going to disclose whatever it is?"

She couldn't open her mouth to speak – like she had been robbed of every single word she had ever possessed. She attempted to say something – but her voice was a pitiful squeak so she shook her head instead.

"I could ask him," House pointed out, and she nodded, accepting the truth of his statement. Wilson would probably tell him, too.

"I can't. Yet," she qualified, and he turned his eyes away from her, back to the piano in front of him. She sighed, feeling like an escapee who had just avoided the searchlight by mere inches.

When he began to play again, the melody was soft and soothing and he leaned into her more fully, his shoulder nudging hers as his hands moved up and down the keys. She sat attentively until his hands slowed and fell silent. When they stilled, he reached across his lap, taking her hand in his and holding it silently for a moment.

"Soon though?"

She nodded in response to his question and he fell silent again – accepting her answer wordlessly. She laid her forehead against his shoulder – silently thankful for the reprieve and suddenly frantic with the need for a plan.

She needed a planned route to take – so she knew where she was going.

A roadmap or some plotted line to take her from point A to point B without losing any passengers along the way. Her free hand crept across her hip, pressing lightly on her stomach as she did so. Without losing anything.


	7. Bleu

A/N: OMG guys. Okay, do you want the good news or the bad news first? I'll start with bad, that's always better. I wrote this and when I looked at the finished chapter I sent it to Alias424 in a panic. Because it was the final chapter. We hemmed and hawed but eventually we both agreed - this really IS the perfect ending chapter for this fic. So. The end. There are some plot points not quite resolved. They WILL be carried forth into P3. I do not forget things, trust me, and my massive notes. So it's the end, and yes that's sad. But good news! I'll be posting the pre-quel tomorrow and this means my new fic start next Tuesday. And really, it's kind of poetic that Prism ends the day House comes back, right? Agree with me anyway peeps. And comment. Because I need it. deep breath OK HERE GOES:

* * *

She pressed her hands into fists as she sat stiffly on the porcelain edge. She shouldn't be alone – not while doing this. But it seemed somehow appropriate as she held her breath – idly counting down the seconds in her head. A human could survive up to five minutes without oxygen. 300 seconds. 

She only needed 120.

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into her palm in an effort to remind herself to breathe, but she couldn't. She should have flipped it over, hidden it from view. It would have been easier that way, but for some reason this time – _this_ time – she wanted to watch.

Watch the small white square as if it held the answer to life's most important question. Glue her eyes to it (_don't breathe_) and watch as the color slowly bled from white to cream to canary. She strained her eyes, praying (_don't breathe – 60 seconds to go_) and ignoring the burning in her lungs that threatened to pierce through her very skin and bone. _Does that look blue?_

She frowned – resisting the urge to flick on the light for a better view – in less than 40 seconds she wouldn't need to wonder if she was imagining the pale shades of pigment or not. It would just be there. Her nails bit more deeply and she felt the sting – but it was a mere elusive wisp of an idea of pain – taking a seat at the back of her mind as she counted down silently in her head.

_30 seconds – don't look, don't breathe._ Her eyes trained on the countertop, studying the small cream and gold flecks there – mentally noting that the tiny specs of azure reminded her of –

_Beep._

She drew a deep breath – the oxygen burning her lungs as she inhaled and exhaled sharply. Breathing – not breathing, either way it hurt in ways she couldn't quite vocalize as she stared fearfully at the white stick on the counter.

It hurt to breathe, to hope.

It hurt to look, but she pressed her feet into the floor and propelled herself forward anyway. She had survived worse than this half-painful, half-anticipatory state of being. She closed her eyes for a second's reprieve as her hands curled around the cool countertop. She took one painful breath – too big and too deep – and then another just like it. The oxygen was making her light-headed as she internally debated.

What was worse? Absence of color – a blank canvas – or deep vivid hues that would take over her very life – her entire soul? She took one final deep breath before forcing her eyes open.

_One, two, three, four_ – she counted the heartbeats that thundered through her chest as she looked down.

* * *

_It's a silent agreement that you share – you don't tell __Wilson__. You somehow manage to swallow your guilt every time you see Stacy in the halls or across the table at meetings – and it's almost perfect, really. __He comes to see you at least once a week, sometimes more if he can convince her he's working late. It's actually harder to keep __Wilson__ from finding out than her, because he is still keeping an eye on you, concerned about your emotional well-being._

_Eventually you convince him that you're seeing someone – outside of the hospital __– and__ he is happy for you, which makes the guilt settle that much more deeply. But the nights when House is with you, you think it must be all worth it. There was one weekend when Stacy had a conference and he didn't disappear the next morning, and you cling to that night with a childish glee. Your mother would be appalled, and when you allow yourself to think about it too much, you are too._

_'You're thinking too much again. I can hear you.' His voice is rough in your ear and you smile before rolling over to face him. __'Poor Cuddy and her guilt complex.'_

_'You're the one that gave it to me,' you mutter and he grins, before pulling your closer and resting his chin on your head._

_'If it's too much….' At least once a month he offers this – to let her leave, to let her go. He offers because it's how he deals with his own guilt. You stay because it's the only reward for yours. Twice you had kicked him out – angry with him for putting the two of you through this – but both times he came back, and you let him because you couldn't stand the alternative._

_'Stop it,' you finally mumble, and he laughs slightly, the sound wrapping around you gently. He has to know, you think – has to know why you stay. He's never promised you anything, never even told you that he loves you, but you have to believe he does, deep down. __If you didn't..._

_'Make me.' He is taunting you now, shaking off the sombre mood that has fallen upon you, and your hands reach out until his breath catches, and you smile in the dark._

_You always knew, given the right circumstances, you could control him._

* * *

"Do I get my own key?" 

"You already have a key," she pointed out mildly – as nervous wings beat a tattoo in her stomach. She allowed herself a tiny smile at the thought – _not nervous wings for long_ –

"Yes but technically I stole that – " He spoke around a handful of chips, and she sighed in disgust before snatching the bowl from his lap and stalking to the kitchen with it. When she came back, he was glaring at her petulantly.

"No. I told you no food in the living room."

"But Mom – "

"House!" The reprimand came out shorted and harsher than she had meant it to. She had simply reacted – and he fell silent as she fought for control – over something, anything around her. She couldn't control him – she couldn't control what was about to happen. She took a breath – willing her blood to calm down and not pound so carelessly through her veins. She stared down at her arm as she fought for a grain of courage on this fear-filled beach.

When she blinked, he was in front of her, his fingers tracing the cerulean shadows that lined her arm. She shivered when his meandering fingers traced the inside of her elbow lightly.

"What is this about? Because we've eaten in here before – "

"Rules shouldn't be followed on an as-needed basis," she managed to whisper – her voice sounding strangled as his eyes met hers and she wondered what he saw. She found herself reaching out for him blindly, her hand twisting around his forearm as she grasped desperately for the help she so clearly needed.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to not drown right now.

She needed to swallow her fear before it reared its ugly head and swallowed her whole – a great blue whale of insecurities and irrationalities.

"Cuddy." His voice was soft and she stared at his shirt front – rumpled cotton so faded it was almost white, but if you stared hard enough at the opaque buttons, you could see the faint glow of long-faded azure.

It was an important color. It was his – and hers – blue eyes, hers like a faded rain and his like a bright burning summer sky. _Which one would dominate?_ Maybe some amalgamated form – _baby blue_. She laughed as he stared at her with growing concern.

"I'm not crazy," she finally choked out – closing her eyes to the sight of him as she dug through the sand frantically, flinging aside fistfuls in her mind, searching for anything – something – that resembled bravery.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for that, psycho." His voice was rough and heavy in her mind – falling down around her like a blanket. Maybe she didn't need to find her own courage. Maybe she could just borrow his.

"House – I have something to tell you – "

"Finally," he muttered, leading her over to the couch and pushing her down until her knees gave out and she felt the fabric against the backs of her thighs.

"Finally?" Her ever-procrastinating mind latched onto his word with vicious glee. Anything – anything to just not have to do this.

"You told me – a few weeks ago, you told me you'd tell me – " She sighed heavily at his words, the air rushing out of her like condensed fear – brushed stainless steel and faintly glowing as she watched it slide away.

"Not that," she bit out – finding it suddenly easier to breathe when his hand gripped her own as he frowned across at her.

"Then what? Because frankly, you're scaring the crap out of me – "

"I'm pregnant." She tried – really she did – to temper the inherent joy she felt in saying those words. She had practiced all day – staring at herself in the bathroom mirror as she repeatedly attempted to say them without the joy pouring out of her soul as she grinned.

She – at the very least – managed not to grin. This was her dream – her reds and yellows and blues melted together in a vivid splash as it coloured her body, her smile and soul. It wasn't his – and she didn't know what to expect now, so she swallowed the fear and watched as he took one breath, and then another, deeper.

He let the air out in a rush – staring at his hands and knees as he contemplated her words. When he looked up, he seemed lost – as though she had stolen every single grain of fortitude from him and given him nothing but her terror in return.

"What now?" His voice was soft, and she felt herself deflate at his words – her shoulders dropped and she sank a bit further into the couch – no longer bursting with her individual joy.

"That's up to you." When she finally spoke, her voice was thick, and she felt as if it were dragging her down – under the inky waters where she would drown alone, gasping for air and receiving only navy water.

"It's not up to me, Cuddy – " His voice was biting – like the slap of stinging waves as they washed over her.

"Isn't it?" She finally turned to him, looking into his eyes as she forced the question out of her throat – hurling it like a flare into the sky – _man down, needs rescuing_. "It's – this was what I wanted, House. I got what I wanted – the only question now is what do you want?"

She sat waiting – treading water desperately as the fire faded from the sky and she fought to breathe – waiting for a response.

* * *

_'He's trying to kill himself, you know that, right?' Wilson's voice is high-pitched and frantic as he stares at you with censure. 'Twice now I've found him passed out because he's drunk off his ass and took too many pills – you cannot seriously stand there and tell me you won't help!'_

_'He doesn't want my help.' You speak tightly and he rolls his eyes before glaring at you._

_'He might not want it but he needs it. It's just not getting through to him, Lisa – so for the love of God, please, help me with him.'_

_'He won't listen to me.'_

_'He doesn't listen to me either but if you're there maybe he'll – '_

_'What,__ have someone else to take it out on?' you snap and he sighs heavily, looking at you beseechingly. _

_'You said he could hate you and live. Let him hate you – so he'll live.' You glare at him through your tears, thinking that people didn't give Wilson nearly enough credit for being the manipulative bastard he was._

* * *

She barely dragged herself to the door in time to see a very haggard-looking James Wilson with her spare key in the lock and a determined glare on his face. He didn't smile or nod when she opened the door, simply pushed past her, yanking the key out of the lock and pocketing it. 

"That's not yours – " she protested weakly, and he turned on his heel, hands on his hips as he glared at her.

"It's not yours either." He spoke significantly and she bit her lip as she listened.

"He would never – "

"I stole it from him. He was too drunk to notice." The words were ground out in such an un-Wilson-like fashion that she had to rub a palm across her eyes to compose herself. "How could you do this to him?"

"How could I do this to him?" She laughed – and the sound wrapped around them, echoing eerily in the too-empty hall. "Is that what he told you? That I somehow kicked him out – that he – " She stopped, taking a deep breath to calm herself before she said too much.

"He told me about the baby."

"Nice." She laughed humourlessly and crossed her arms. "Did you come here to lecture me? He volunteered – "

"Because he _loves_ you, Lisa – surely even you can see that!" Wilson waved his arms tiredly and held one up when she opened her mouth to speak. "No – I was with him all last night. He misses you and frankly – I mean, yes he's _House_ and probably the worst possible influence you could have chosen – but it's _his_ child too and he – "

"Wants nothing to do with it!" she finally shouted across him, her words bursting out of her involuntarily. He stopped mid-gesture, his arm flung out, frozen as he blinked at her.

"What?" He frowned, tilting his head slightly as she glared.

"I asked him, Wilson – I asked him what he wanted." To her extreme annoyance, she felt the tip of her nose tingle as she spoke – tears filling her eyes that she brushed away as quickly as possible. "Apparently it wasn't a nice, cozy family scene."

"What did he say?" Wilson was grasping her elbow gently now, leading her to the dining room chairs and sitting her down like she was a small child with a scraped knee.

"Nothing." She spoke thickly, sniffling as she cursed her own weakness. "Not one damn thing. He left."

"Cuddy – I mean, maybe – this is a lot to take in. Maybe he doesn't think you want him here." Wilson's words were quiet, reassuring – like a soft puff of air, blowing the sting away. She blinked away her tears and looked up at his concerned face.

"He's had days…." She trailed off hesitantly – hope bubbling forth – a beam of light piercing the murky depths.

"If it were me – " Wilson's voice snagged there, and she smiled across at him, pressing her hand against his shoulder as he kneeled in front of her. "I wouldn't think that someone like you – "

"He has to know, Wilson – "

"Have you ever told him?" Wilson words were strong and sure – he tossed the question out casually, like a life preserver. Her hands tightened on his shoulder and he blinked up at her reassuringly.

"I need that key." She spoke quickly on an indrawn breath, and he reached in his pocket, handing it over to her without question. The metal was cool on her skin and she rose, pressing down on him for balance.

"Good luck." His voice was soft, and it belied the effort the words must have taken. Sometimes she wished... but his brown eyes were wrong as she stared at him too hard, the silence dragging out too long. And no matter how much she wished – she couldn't turn them blue.

* * *

His door wasn't locked – _thank you__ Wilson_ – and she slipped in silently, moving through the dim until she was just standing in the doorway to his bedroom. The fact that he wasn't at his piano had shocked her. But it seemed somehow right to see him amid his tangle of navy sheets – the old guitar in his hands gleaming like gold in the nonexistent lighting. 

"Wilson, just go away – " His voice was a sigh, and she felt the reassuring press of her house key in her hand as she stared at him contemplatively. Her mind ran light-years ahead of her as it spun out fifteen different things she could say. In the end, she just tossed the key on the bed, halting his words at its muffled thump as she stepped closer and stared at him.

"I believe that's yours."

"Not anymore, remember?" His voice was bitter as his fingers danced gracefully across tightened strings.

"I'm sick and tired of bullshit, House. Here's the deal." She spoke forcefully – the tone alone stilled his hands as he looked up to gauge her level of seriousness. When his eyes met hers, he pulled the instrument from his lap and placed it beside the bed before spreading his hands in invitation.

"I'm listening."

"You're an ass. An arrogant, idiotic, stupid, moronic ass. You think you know what I want? Better than I do?" Her anger laced through the words, colouring the air as they poured out of her.

"You wanted a baby. Last time I checked, you got that. Was I needed for something else, master?" He stood as he spoke, striding around the bed to stand in front of her – their anger always seemed to magnetize their souls, plucking and pulling until his negative aligned with her positive and they snapped in place.

She wanted to caress him – or smack him. Her hand faltered somewhere in between the two until it rested against his chest, stilling there as it rose and fell in time to his laboured breaths. "When this is all over – you're going to say it to me, House." The words were breathed out of her, halfway between a promise and a victory cry. "You are needed for something else, actually." Her hand lifted and she pointed to the bed where the brass key glowed among the sea of deep blue, an honest-to-goodness treasure, sitting at the bottom of this ocean with her. "It's yours." _I__'__m yours._ "The question is if you want to take it."

His eyes followed her hand and he shook his head as she spoke. "This isn't about what I want – "

"Why not? It's the only factor present but unaccounted for," she pointed out. "I knew – House, I knew when I asked you that it was – well, _you_." She ran her now-shaking hand through her hair as nausea rolled through her, strong and bitter. "You are a pain in the ass, stubborn, egotistical, manipulative... completely _worth it_ bastard. I didn't ask you without knowing – our history and my feelings..." She trailed off, suddenly unsure under the bright glare of his gaze, pinned down and frightened.

"Cuddy – "

"When I asked – I knew what I wanted. I knew what I hoped for – and I never thought it would happen. I knew who you were, just like you know who I am. And I wanted it to be you anyway. If it hadn't been you – this wouldn't have ever happened." Her hands dropped down, brushing against her abdomen briefly, but his eyes followed the movement. "I wanted it to be you. I still do." She took a deep breath, feeling the heaviness ease out of her as the words escaped.

Silence reigned, the atmosphere turning cumbersome as her heart raced and her stomach rebelled – what if she had said too much?

_Or not enough._

"I need you to want this – us – too." The words were expelled before she had time to think about them, clutch a hand over her mouth and force them back against her tongue until they could be stomached.

She closed her eyes, taking refuge in the blissful black relief, her ears registering the sounds of their breathing – harsh and out of time with each other. When his hand brushed against her, she almost jumped out of her skin. After the initial shock though, she felt her face tingle as the weight of his palm settled there. When she finally scrounged up the courage to open her eyes, he was standing there, one hand pressed between them as he waited.

"I'm not going to be any good – "

"I know. Luckily I'm a perfectionist." She smiled tremulously, her heart rising as the light that danced across the surface seemed to be rushing toward her as she ascended.

"I can't promise – "

"Promise me anyway." Her voice was shallow and breathless and she wanted to lift a hand – shield herself from the light that wasn't even there with them as the water around her warmed, its blacks and navies swirling away into azures and bright greens.

"Cuddy…." His voice was a warning, even as his hand gripped her hip, pulling her closer.

"I need you to promise me this time, Greg." Her words hung between them like a final war cry, and he stilled before pulling her flush against him, so close she could smell the sweat and whiskey and that smell that just made him _him_.

She inhaled deeply, pressing her face against his neck as she felt his heart beating against his chest. "I promise." His voice was muffled and she had to strain to hear him, but when she smiled against his skin, the darkness was suddenly replaced by something brighter than sunshine.

She closed her eyes, and her hands gripped his shoulders as she counted her breaths and clung to the lifeline.

When she looked up, all she could see in the blindingly bright darkness, was the blue of his eyes as his mouth lowered to hers and the joy filled her again, causing her to smile brilliantly just before he made contact.

His blue, her blue, baby blue – none of it mattered, only that the blank canvas was overflowing with vibrant colour.


End file.
